How many dreams haunt your parking lot?
I hold my breath whenever I walk backwards,
Back to Hula-Hoops, rocking horses and toy
Soldiers. Let umbrellas cover the sun, I’ll swim to
The deep end. Daddy filled the pool with weeds and
Blood. I’m always stroking into television,
Diving for tears and laughter. The sun
Lives on the small screen. Boxed life. Nuclear
Fathers. A woman appears, advertising tires.
That warms the tubes. Hand on screen, I test sex
Under glass. She winks then wrinkles when I adjust
The vertical. We could be lovers, best love
Imaginable, but imagine her in fifty years—probably
Dead like me. Faces terrorize the glass, a rerun
With trains and girls and men raising rifles.
Someone on the train dies. In real life only the
Conductor survives, retires near Reno. I wonder if
It’s all a dream. A yellow cat waits behind the door,
Wants to be bounced on my knee like a baby.
I could maybe tolerate that cat if he used this
New deodorant being advertised again. Sometimes
I could slip a knife behind my eyes,
Scrape away the residue of childhood viewings.
Sept. 11, 2002
9:30 pm, PCT