Sometimes I walk
down country roads,
and shushing sounds
of moaning trees transport
me to a daydream
luxuriant as velveteen
where I discuss
out-of-body experiences
with a therapist.
“Is sexual frustration,”
I ask, “the reason
I drew your
neckline plunging,
your miniskirt the size
of a blindfold?”
“What do you think?”
she replies, red-tipped
fingernails skimming
her hem as she crosses
and uncrosses legs,
thigh-high stockings
crackling with intent.
“Why does the incense
burning provocatively
between us
smell of diesel?
“You tell me,”
she says,
laugh tickling
her smoky voice.
“And why,” I persist,
“do our sessions
always conclude
just as my alarm
heralds the birth
of a new day?”
“Let’s save that
for next time.”
The wall clock’s
little hand
points north,
and somewhere
amid whispers of grass,
the foretold blare
rises in volume,
shaking the globe
of my dream—
except it is never
really an alarm
but the snarl
of a dump truck,
its shiny steel rictus
splattered with insects,
a Rorschach reminding me
what can happen
to daydreamers who
wander country roads.
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