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Dreamfall
By Brent Fisk
At 37 I am wintry gray
and cold. The cat springs
on the bed looking for a sign of movement.
I dream again of summer, the green of seventeen.
I walk the lip of sleep and my ears betray,
echo the rest of my body.
I rinse my unwrecked car, toss water
at my laughing, unbroken brother.
A mower kicks up gravel,
toddlers squeal in a wading pool,
a basketball rings
the brick facades of modest homes.
The old gander on the park lake
challenges the bellowed revolutions
of a balky merry-go-round.
My body vibrates with youth.
Knees swing on new hinges,
my back does not falter at first rise.
When I move the curtain aside,
old man Hooper is cutting the wrong yard.
Forgotten houses are shrouded in fog,
burn away, recede and disappear.
Mother sorts laundry in a cool basement,
sorts the blacks and whites of yesterday,
wonders at the lack of color.
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