I dream I'm making long-range love:
thrust and rock a lonely pillow-sea,
trying to dart a sex-dream east to my
girl who's writing less to me;
letters wilt in drought.
I wake and start to write a bitter-
sweet dream-poem. Tap and ponder by
my dawn baywindow. Then out of my
pane, I spot a rocking man curled up
fetal in the street.
Road's a sudden curve. Cars can come
fast and blind; danger! Yet I pause
long pulses, hand above phone. The sun's
still waking my quiet street; perhaps
he'll uncurl, move on.
Eyes on my work. No motion, yet when
I look again, he's moved. Still curled,
but in the far lane now! I look
down and tend my dream. Again a flick!
Fetal on the walk.
I'm still tense. Think "I was right:
he's safe now, no need to call,
relax, relax"--but can't. No, he's
not in danger. He danger is.
Fetal on a windowledge
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of the diner across the street. I stare,
forget my work, for my third eye howls
"Call 9-1-1 right now!" But what'll I tell
the cops? "A man's on a ledge three feet up!
Sure, some suicide call!
Fetal unfolds to join that diner line--
cheery omelet throng. Meekly waits a turn,
but then declines their famous eggs;
pulls and fires a gun. The dying barman sags.
Fetal turns away,
sidles through shock and is gone. Sirens mourn
as cops roar up, too late! They check
security tapes; I see the replay now.
Pointillist shots of his stringy bald pate:
Mustached sideburned face.
But his antique trim quite fails to hide
cheeks distinctive wide. O I'm
unneeded here. He'll be caught and jailed.
No, my job was earlier--and I failed.
What if I'd dialed as he curled?
Could I have dialed as he curled?
Why didn't I dial as he curled?
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