where the writers are
putting the real back in surreal (not really)

Underground Parking Lot Security Cam


The assistants scurry from coffee pot to metal table, scraping their jaws with rusty metal hangers, tipping over lightweight plastic shopping carts.  Manicured pets, stretched and stitched, are gnawing in their sleep.  The scalpel thinks, I will never be thirsty again. 

A half-moon eye, the German shepherd under the chair thinks.  That is an eye that is fixed and staring, the upper lid half-closed. The shepherd likes the sound of glass breaking, and the way that shards prick his rough feet. 

In the ex-Barista’s basket, a calico is piecing together a quilt of smells; she moves her front paws up and down, imitating sewing gestures. 

The owners are clustered in a corner, weeping.  They are trying to dig a hole under a Toyota, they are trying not to remember what happened upstairs. 

The shepherd’s left foot is asleep and dreaming of a room without a floor.  Because the dream reminds it of a red carpet it once touched, the foot twitches.

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Serendipitous Final Stanza

Interesting to read this final stanza this morning.  When I finally crawled toward bed in the earliest hours this morning, My Beloved Sandra, soundly asleep, waved at me. I'll have to ask if she remembers who she was waving at.

As always, Ms H, my hat is off.

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Thanks!  Dreams are really

Thanks!  Dreams are really important to my poems -- I don't know if I'd be able to write without them!