Even a Sandman Dreams

Even a Sandman Dreams

1

The devil has a reality show

but no one can tell me the name

Everyone will say it's good though

(No one wants to give the Prince of Darkness a bad rating)

One old biddy says-

It's okay. But an hour too long.

She's still so close to her death that formaldehyde clings to her fingertips

She sold her soul a long time ago, anyway

for a pair of silver knitting needles

I hope she'll knit me a scarf for my day in hell

I hear the farther down you go, the colder it gets,

but Dante always was a bit of a drama queen

(Never appreciated the sunflower dreams I sent on Tuesdays)

Don't think I actually auditioned, but all the big wigs are here

and my memory gets shoddy after the last Inquisition

No one wanted to dream then, just in case of nightmares

Can't blame them, it's nothing personal

Even a Sandman dreams

2

But I've been here before

The wild-eyed Woman Under the Porch can't remember a thing either

and that's okay

All she has to do is grab the occasional straying finger,

the proverbial shadow beneath the floorboards

At least I've got the backyard,

full of dead grass and trees

A part of me wishes I had chains to rattle

I mean

I've got this killer drawn-out, wailing moan

But backyard ghosting is more of a hovering-type deal, with

a) blinking in and out of the light at sunup and sundown;

b) having the single trailing tear just before disappearance

All a little more tragic than my liking, but you take what you get

The guy in the master bedroom, though

he's a real creeper

Out of the 13 in the house,

he's the only one with red skin and no eyes

The rest are mostly muted gray silhouettes,

standard issue

I hover, visit the Woman Under the Porch

She's really very nice

Unless someone walks over her floorboards,

then she shrieks and scrabbles to touch them through the cracks in the wood,

sticks pointed tongue and long, dirty nails through the slats of sunlight

By then I usually leave

'cause she starts muttering about knitting needles

and I can't remember what she means, even if I should

3

Driving my car out of the living room just isn't going well

I keep bumping into the glass menagerie

Things are shattering all around me, despite my best efforts otherwise

and all I want to do is leave

Not sure how it got in here

I'm tired of waking up inside dreams within dreams,

and waking up to my car being gone and inside someone's house down the street

It's getting colder and my heater isn't starting

My fingers struggle with the buttons

The family who lives here will be home any moment, I'm sure

I have no idea what to say,

let alone any clue as to how to fit a car through the front door

I wrap my scarf tighter around my throat

and grab my lighter and cigarettes

My numbing fingers manage to get the window down

It's a beautiful collection of glass, really

Someone's got a fetish for the devil

A tiny, busted pitchfork is underneath my left front tire

Smoke curls around the figurines

I should probably turn the engine off

Doesn't look like I'm going anywhere

4

The guy looks pretty serious

so we pick up the pace

Five of the others are pelting behind me

I guess he didn't like our jokes

Not much for us to do on the streets anyway

Winter gray is in the sky as we run harder

He follows us to the edge of the city

and out towards the river

Cold air burns my lungs,

through the holes in my jacket

My bright red scarf trails behind me,

matching gloves are alternating blood drops

as I pump them faster

He's moving kinda slow now

The river had swelled with winter rain and ice

Freezing water hit my shoes and I bit back a yelp of surprise

Chunks of ice float by, the water moving swiftly for this time of year

There's no way across

My teeth start chattering

The others look to me, but no way across

What was I doing before I started running?

I've been here before

We step back from the river and turn around

I chafe my gloved hands together,

watching the shadow move closer in the failing winter light

My last thought-

I'm glad she asked for the knitting needles,

instead of the golden fiddle.