“I can see you,” she says
sweeping airily by,
flash of Sunday-school dotted swiss,
patent leather rat-a-tat heels,
whiff of Skin So Soft.
“Time to rise and shine!”
Her voice is soprano sharp
and bellwether clear,
the vibrato not yet crackled with age.
“Mama seeees you very well.”
And how eagerly, happily you rouse,
clutch at the bed sheets,
a child again to your mother’s skirts.
“And I can see you,” you answer back.
But, that truth is fading fast,
like the epiphanies of slumber,
another vision glimpsed much too late.
And come the hindsight of day,
subject to wavering revision.
Jessica Triepel on Hobo’s Dream, prose poem…