Skip to main content

Shopping/Supervillainy

 Posting in response to Carrie's bonus prompt "Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings." 

Here are the threads of a dream,
Catalogued at 5:55 am; before the alarm chimes:
I saw Dabney Coleman in a shopping arcade
In some district of Houston that doesn’t exist,
Just as my husband avoided entering a store
Full of clothbound books and menswear.
I said nothing.
I stopped to admire a necklace—
A gold and pearl cross that echoed the silver one
My mom had loaned me and I had broken
In high school.
Dabney and his wife (the lady from National Treasure,
Tiny as a gymnast in dream life) asked the jeweler
To make us open the outer door and greeted us.
Then, asking us to wait, Dabney hurried off.
I tried to explain the cross, our anniversary weekend,
My mother’s call that there were too many people
And we should skip breakfast in the city to his wife.
I kept a mask crushed tight in my fist.
I tried to explain the perfect pictures of a light Texas snow
I was going to post later, the ones from the empty place we stayed in
Just…well, not too far…from the city. Further away.
At least another small city away.
Dabney had hurried to the executive inner tube spa nearby
And was hassling his father-in-law to get out of the water
So that everyone could have breakfast.
I haven’t thought of Dabney Coleman in years.
Awake, I wonder.
How badly do I want to be out amongst people again?

Comments

  1. Dreams can capture so many moments of memory and throw them into one mall or place that either exists or does not. This is a wonderful capturing of so much of that Chrissa, from the necklace to Texas snow, and masks in hand. I think the answer to your powerful question at the end, is yes. It is yes for many of us these day. Thank you so much for participating in the bonus prompt my friend!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

To Blue Fields Far Below

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #228 , The Fashionable Twenties.  A sycamore fairy sits crosslegged in the road Dragons swim toward smooth hills above the storms Vines embrace the telephone poles  Someone washed the blue skies and she knows  It's time to dare the salty foam It's time to wade through the eternal fields' folds And gather golden apples for home.  Hoping this finds you with space to daydream and a good book in which to wander. Working on turning last week's prompt into a longer piece, as I found myself intrigued by the idea of tea in the garden as combat. Social situations are not my forte. As it's still Spider September, there will be a chihuahua-sized jumping spider that is none too happy about anything but hunting squirrels (that's for you, Mom).  -- Chrissa

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...

By the Roadside

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #260  with much appreciation to Carrie & Shay & everyone. Just a reminder: if you have a poetry book, please drop a title in the comments. My TBR won't thank you, but I will. :)    I drive by the armadillos, dead where they fell. Sunlight is so heavy it folds into damp shimmers. All the roads are widening, dispersing the ditches, Grinding out parking lots, killing slow steps. I speed up; crisp winter in the passenger seat. We will arrive at the store soon; I will drag her Chill, into the store. Breathe for both of us. Brightness distorts the lots, now grown gigantic. Roads need blood, the state needs the kills. We will make it through barriers if we wear them: Dead armadillos, caliche dust, gunmetal sunshine.