I wandered lonely as an old goat in an empty field,
out to the deserted City streets, slick with icy rain,
circled the church garden twice, searching for spring.
Found some Iris swords, green hopes smashed, and
a man in a wheelchair, sleeping under a scaffolding,
his one leg, with it's clown-striped sock, dangling off.
In the chair's boot, two teddy bears watched his back.
I had a haunted, worried, distressed sort of a dream:
'The super from decades ago was on my fire escape,
cleaning guano from the rusty iron, protesting angrily.
I hid behind a screen I no longer own, feeling guilty.
Deciding to confront him, not knowing what I'd say,
nor what he. and whoever that was with him, would do,
I was feeling liberated--ready for whatever would be.'
Precisely when I woke--I'd been dredging old rivers then,
in my sleep, listening to real pigeons here, in the now.
I was tapping into the guilt root too, the fear entangled
thing, always available--that constant question of being.
Who has the right to be? Who turns, faces the enigma,
who confronts the ambiguity and wakes from the dream.
Every day a new high wire to cross, keeping in balance.