The clock read 3:27,
And since I use the 24-hour kind of time
I knew it was the morning,
Earlier even than I usually make me wake up,
So I tried to go back to sleep,
But I remembered the dream
As I rarely,
Rarely,
Do–
So much so that I have thought
I have lost the ability to dream–
So I tried to write it down,
Myself as a landlord,
Living in the building whose pieces I rent,
Trying to keep everything together and moving,
Not entirely succeeding
Even though the residents seemed to appreciate
The work I did to keep them happy

It seemed
It would be a good thing to write,
A source for several stories in diverse styles,
Something of an anthology although following one line,
But it vanishes even as I put pixel to page,
And only these lines remain of it.

That there is
Some suitcase overstuffed or steamer trunk whose hinges and latches strain
I’m sure
But an armoire into which to unpack is less certain.
Do you know anyone who makes furniture?

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