Wandering Mind
by Bill Glose

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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