Disorientation

In my dream
I walk through a vacant house.
A little boy cries in an orange room
A baby is born
Faded, bleached photographs
Line the walls as the
Furnace rattles
Next to the unmade futon.
Water seeps through the cracks
A phone rings in the distance
Is it for me?
I sigh, and realize
It couldn’t be.

My muscles are sore
My heart is uncertain
My conscience aches.
Burning sun, frostbiting wind
Scorch my skin and chill my body
My brain is dishonest, uncertain, full of hate.

The stairs are steep and never-ending
Untuned piano with yellow keys
Chopin echoes, melancholy
Flowing from my fingers
Swirling amber leaves
Rest in the gutter
And I know
I can’t love you
Like you love me.

Whitney 17 October 2002