I’m dreaming about you
old Doctor Moonlight:
the suitcase we found, empty
awaits our roadside treasures.

We’re seventeen, we stop to take
a long and second look at each
and every thing. We recognize
ourselves, each of us the other

with what we choose to carry:
a torn corner of a lost map, a red mop wig
a mannequin’s head, featureless,
and a battered and rusty pipejoint.

I wake and look around me now. I’m
old, and winter’s in the house.


2 thoughts on “Carlos

  1. The conjuring of youth here gave a me a chill. I’m pretty sure it was the poem and not the winter in the house. I have a friend who took a red suitcase to her wedding, walked over a bridge and ceremoniously dumped it.

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