To Andrew Hudigns
My nightmares. They’re nothing like the lonely dead
you wrote about, perhaps at night, late at night
when you couldn’t sleep. I don’t have trouble
sleeping. Only the dreams I have these days
are beginning to bother me. I am going
back to my old school and my old desk
and my old friends are there, but they are busy.
too busy to talk just now. And my old bosses
are glad to see I have returned. But they’re not
in charge any more, and they don’t much care.
And I’m left to walk the halls. Alone. Strangers.
Like some kind of fucking stranger hanging
on the brown banister. Lingering outside
the brown frames of doors, unable to enter,
or the mailboxes, greasy brown. Either that
or I dream I found my zippo but when I wake
I can’t remember any longer where it was.