Outside, the rain pounced on the unwary.

Inside, all sorts of time-honored
and respectable games
were going on:

Tongues were rolled.
Heads were met
and questioned.

Important words
were bounced while

all true dreams were
kept heavily sedated and

covered with thick blankets
of layered textures.

False dreams, of course,
were gaily trotted out,

outfitted in sweet-scented,
smart bonnets and marched

in the usual parade. In
random samples, we made our
exits as the clock ticked

away. By this time the
rain had caught its bus
for the suburbs.

The air was warm and thick,
and puddles abounded. One
had to step carefully

To avoid mashing the many
fat, long worms which

Struggled gamely along the
foreign concrete.


About the Poet:
R. Bremner, of Glen Ridge via Lyndhurst, NJ, USA, is a former cab driver, truck unloader, security guard, computer programmer, and vice-president at Citibank. He writes of dead kings and many things he can’t define, the clutter in your mind, and the color of time. Ron was in the very first issue of Passaic Review, along with Allen Ginsberg. He has appeared in   International Poetry Review, Oleander Review, Paterson Literary Review, Yellow Chair Review, and Poets Online (20 times) and sundry elsewheres.  Please visit him at Poets & Writers: , where milk and cookies await.


Photo by Jeff Juit.


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