It was in my mind that this prissy old man
must be some kind of head doctor –
analyst, psychiatrist, whatever –
because he kept on asking me about my dreams.
And so I told him
I dream colors, geometric shapes, strange textures
and particles and waves and swirling kaleidoscopic
lights that hover at the edge of my dream-time vision.
What does it mean? Naturally, I was already
formulating my response to the inevitable
“Well, what do you
think it means?”
but it never came.
And when I dreamt that night
it was all lakes and locks and paint peeling
around electrical sockets and in a flash I knew as clearly
as if I had his business card in my hand:
that man was no kind of head doctor at all, not even
a therapist for God’s sake – just another salesman,
looking to unload an backed-up inventory
of shabby and sadly repressed clichés.
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