Mouse Tracks

This morning I woke up from a
broken dream and all day the pieces
were lodged in my chest like glass.
Coughing blood from the spirit
I could not swallow.

And what does it mean? Nothing
but the scratching of a mouse in the
trap of my subconscious.

A mouse in the kitchen cabinet chewing
heads of matches started a fire
and my great-grandfather's bookcases smell of smoke
these fifty-odd years later.
But that's not what I dreamed of--

driving in a caravan of people moving,
refugees from an unseen disaster. We
headed out of town by an unconventional route
the leader said was the fastest way
and I confirmed it from my memories of driving
before gas hit $3.50. Stopped for the night
(though it was still broad afternoon)
at a roadside rest stop. You're not supposed
to overnight at those places.

I swallowed that much. The rest
was fragmented and stuck and told me nothing
useful. The dream-journal I kept
faithfully for six months was so much garble
and I can only suppose it's because I worked so hard
on being awake.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside