(For Tom Watson)
An odd dream,
the kind from which you’re roused from REM
in the soft dark of predawn with the fleeting odor
of mint playing down a long unused synaptic corridor.
And you know it was somehow pertinent, has left you
stinging, like catching a fast ball with an oven mitt.
No. You’ve just slept hard on your arm
and your hand has fallen asleep, the one you type with,
the one you write with, all pins and needles
in its own effort to rise.
What was it? Something about ten long-haired midgets
squabbling over a tent in the low rent district of right field,
all shouting “Mine! Mine! Mine!”
But the sun is threatening the low hanging moon
and soon this horoscope of memory
will retreat into noon’s light.
Time now to return to reality,
to trim the trees, to pull the weeds,
to listen to a ball game and relax in the sun.
Time to contemplate the midgets
and capture, with your pen,
the giants in their shadows.
© Alvin Nash
Music by David Michael Jackson
A production of Artvilla Records
All rights reserved