I woke before sunrise, or birds
woke me, or perhaps the dog—
I walked her while still mildly
asleep, brain fog-shrouded—
then I returned to bed, and dreamt
of a place, a house, not mine, but
still mine, part of that house
always there in dreams, filled
with endless rooms that seem
almost real and touchable,
until some minor ache or
wrinkle wakes me, leaving
the dream slightly shredded,
like fragments of a tapestry.
Some event was pending
at that house and for those
dwelling within, and we readied
even the night before, so I went
to the basement, to find the missing
item always missing in the dream,
there my dead father was preparing
for sleep, in underwear, not pajamas
as I would have thought, in a spare
bed, in a bright alcove, with bright
white sheets and a blue cover—
the bed seemed square and too short,
and I advised sleeping at an angle,
which he agreed, happily, was good.
He seemed younger than I remembered,
strangely, because my classmates, now
also dead, are always young in dreams—
some never grew up, grew old.
