Thursday, October 29, 2009

Home is a Strange Place

Home is a strange place, my father here, alive again, knee-deep in a pile of leaves. Angles and eaves and broken-down tables; shadows on paths through the trees. I want to smoke, but each match is snuffed by the breeze. The book falls apart in my hand. I notice a car in the yard. My father is behind the wheel. I slide in on the passenger side. The dash is alive, a futuristic arrangement of buttons and blinking lights. One of them is white — much to my surprise, it’s a cigarette lighter. In my father’s hand, the end of it burns like a star. I hold up a large uncured tobacco leaf. Night intervenes; with an old rag, he wipes a constellation from the windshield.

Added this morning to the Annandale Dream Gazette. My thanks, as always, to Lynn Behrendt.

In the Forum: blood ain’t tabasco.


Elisabeth said...

A dream that becomes a poem. Haunting and so beautiful.

William Michaelian said...

Elisabeth, thanks very, very much.

vazambam said...

If it is William's home, there's always place for another strange and wonderful dream of a poem.

William Michaelian said...

And sometimes, I think that is what home really is.