"I had a dream last night and
you were there."
"And you were there? Okay Kansas."
"I'm serious, you were," drops of rain
are cutting the single pane window
into a Dali clock disco ball,
the turning leaves
four thousand high output LEDs
behind safety scissor cut streamers of
Autumn dyed silk.
"We talked for hours
before I realized I was
talking to myself,
reading your parts
in a screenplay, but you were there."
The air conditioner is still
in the window, the rain
turning it into a one note kettle drum
with enough reverberation
to rattle our empty house
with the snick and snack of
ghost canines at a Tuesday night rave.
"Let's go do something. I want to be
where the people are."
"Okay, Ariel."
"I'm serious, let's go."
"Alright," the key ring is nestled in its dish
with a pair of D cell batteries,
their plastic casings stripped away.
They all fit in a hip pocket and
throw off heat as the afternoon
drains away while they touch and
ward off Winter chilled glass flights,
painted and breathy
as dry ice bedded tree formed shots of
one fifty one along flaming boughs, "get your coat."
