The Old Haunt

A dog with a white face
sleeps away the day.
It is February and cold too early--
the tulips, aware they are dreaming.

My neighbor walks to the corner bar daily
and drinks to her lost children.
She tells me in passing of dreams
where she loses her teeth,
tells me she's lost her keys again,
needs me to kick in her door.
It is an old neighborhood
and the door gives way easily.

She floats too much when she walks,
like a ghost or someone with eggs
in pockets of an apron.
She leaves her porch light on all night
as if the roots of trees wake from bad dreams
and call to her.

Sometimes the old dog growls in his sleep
sometimes runs without moving.

copyright 2006 Brent Fisk
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