something like summer camp

in the dream, someone in a white button up said i’ll wait for you here, no matter how long it takes
as i go off to retrace my steps to figure out
how i got there
(which includes visiting some sort of seminary with a greenhouse
and everything is 1970s/80s – especially the repair of the place
and the breadmaker there is going
perhaps breaking a plastic container into the dough
and the seminarians
are upstairs asleep until i wake them with my wandering and i wonder
how can this be part of the story
of how i got where i am
(max and their pug who dwelled in a room down the hall were also in the dream in the earlier phase where i lived in a communal house/apartment complex
and still didn’t know some of the folks who were also living there
and at some point, there is a series of rooms with flowers
something like a memorial service only
it is nothing that somber just rooms
filled with the deeps and brights and lights of so many 

_______

the brilliant vibrance
deep orange
of the baltimore oriole
swooping past
in the bright sun dappled
by the green leaves that spread out overhead
_______
on a blanket under the redbud in the orchard
ashby sprawled out on one side of me and 
birdie on the other i read rachel
in this time of transition
her tarot in the form of cats instead of cards
_______

something like summer camp
lounging on my loft (bunk-like) bed
reading and reading and reading
(in this case, a book titled “this assignment is so gay: lgbtq poets on the art of teaching”)
while the mosquitoes whine
and gather on the other side
of the screens
_______
i am in two kinds of pain
both different but near each other
one originating somewhere in the low spine or hip socket and rocketing in flashes down my leg (sciatica)
and one is perhaps somewhere between the lower vertebrae, more on the left side
a pinching 
a back out
a don’t arc back or bend forward
and you should see me walk
along the uneven path
and hear me letting out
the kind of gasp
brought on when the jolt goes down the leg
_______
emory’s chittering chattering howl
rising up the stairs and when i descend and ask what happened
he’s got his palm on a towel-wrapped bunch of ice
and explains how he thinks he might have broken his finger
after scoring a three pointer
and jumping
in celebration

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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