10 Nov 2018 poem

Premonition

You wake up.
It seems all your furniture has been stolen
and replaced by exact duplicates.

You believe your sleep got hijacked
into a Steven Wright comedy routine
on a thirty-year old episode of Letterman.

You roll over.
Or you dream you roll over.
Or you dream the bed rolls under you.

You wake up.
You see a line up of Catholic saints
atop your bed board above your books.

You wonder if there are saints
in Buddhism and Hinduism
and Islam and, what about, those New Agers.

One by one the saints jump
only to have their fall abruptly halted
by the noose each wears.

You must be dreaming.
Though you cannot imagine why you dreamed
this awful, repetitious scene.

You wake up.
Your bed is in the pasture
with the white horse.

The white horse is not a noble steed.
Which is good, since you are not
a knight errant.

You look around the pasture for your partner,
who should be in bed next to you,
but is absent without leave.

You wake up.
The absence of your partner in the bed
seems exceedingly real and terrible.

You get out of bed
and stand in the dark by the window.
Your partner’s car does not sit in the driveway.

You wonder What happened?
Your mind races through many innocent and ugly possibilities.
Your cell phone rings upon the bed stand.


copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney

 

 

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