Matt Dennison


Old old dream of mother and I
dragging an old wooden trunk
down a cowboy-town street
under weak yellow lights. It is
cold, though I do not feel it,
though I can see the haloed cold.

Heavy trunk, wide streets, she
in old man's coat, me dream-dressed
and dragging importance, of some sort,
somewhere—knowing only this town
is not it—is only the aberration
through which we must pass,
heads down.

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