XPost: alt.arts.poetry.comments

The Original Dream Tears

Spanish guitar flutters.
It was 1895 or so
I was in a dream.
I met my bride on Saint George Street
sweet brown nameless bride.
In the big clapboard city market house
train station dream place.
Her eyes and smile
her sparkle of wit, my dream wife.

We sit with happy conversation.
Across the huge room
I see the drunken unreconstructed rebel.
Swearing and pushing people.
I nod to her
that it's time for us to slide.
We cut through the side room bar area
crowded---

I look back
my heart sinks
She is not behind me.
I don't see her anywhere
among these happy ghosts.
I step out on this street
waiting
looking
no sign of her.

I step back in.
Coming through the opposite
far entrance I see...
The parade of proud Klansmen.
It all becomes clear to me
they took her.
My sweet smiling nameless bride.

I step back onto Saint George street
salt breeze and fish smell in the air.
I sit with a group of fellow ghosts
beaten and grey under an awning
and I cry --- floods and torrents of tears.
Spanish guitar flutters.

-Will Dockery

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From the archives, definitely a keeper.

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