draft of a new poem

I wake from a dream of packing.
A nightmare of packing. I can't find
my tennis shoes. The pants
are the wrong size.
Where's my toothbrush?
Whose house is this?
My daughters are young.
They find my wedding dress and pull it
from its box, layers of taffeta
everywhere, like drifts of snow
I have to wade through to find the suitcase
empty again. I need a pair
of blue jeans. I need riding boots,
though I'm not sure why.
I need a weather forecast for where
I'm going. Someone spills makeup
over what clothes I've managed to assemble.
Everything -- unfolded, damp.
The plane will leave without me.
I wake into a blue morning,
old snow slipping from branches,
rain falling like points of light.


  1. After reading your poem, I just had this sense that you are living alone or confused. I guess you are running away from your problems. A good composition though! A toothbrush is certainly important, whether you are traveling or not. heheh.

    Randy Deaver


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