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.