After the storm moves past
I once again hear the humming
Of a distant machine.
After dark when most lights are out
When I realize the sound has been gone
For awhile I get dressed and head out.
At the pick-up spot I find the pile waiting.
I wrap each individual dream in the clear
Plastic of day residue and check my list,
Add the special insert of coincidence
And start walking. As each doorstep
Appears through the fog I throw with
Unerring accuracy and the dream lands
On the porch because everybody’s dream
House has a front porch. Occasionally
I overthrow and the dream clatters
Against a loose screen door.
Upstairs a light comes on and the shadow
Of your face looks down on me
And I know for a searing instant you see
Me and know what’s being delivered
Like when you have a dream of a dream.
Whether or not I know you now,
Or ever met you, doesn’t matter.
This list is never wrong. On
The way home I pass others like me
Delivering memories of themselves
But by the time I get home I can only
Think about climbing into bed, forgetful.
Just as I’m drifting off, I hear a late model
Car prattle up my street and the sound
Of tomorrow’s papers hitting porches
Across the street although there are no houses
Across the street, just a park by the library.
And although I don’t get up I can almost feel
Someone standing on the sidewalk, who climbed
Out of their car over the pile of papers on
Their front seat, to see who might look down at them.