A Recurring Dream

 

“What are these,” they asked,
Gathering round.  “Not mine,”
I fretted, putting my hands up.
“We have heard otherwise,”
A loud fat man with the
Scraggly beard sneered
Looking back toward the others

For support.  “Who else would
Write them,” he demanded,
“If not you?”  I shrugged.
“You can’t prove it was me.”
“Oh but we can,” he said
Waving a hand and a man
Pushed a wheel barrow

Toward me.  “This is a mistake,”
I stammered, wiping the sweat
From my brow.  “I am no
Writer.  Just ask Lowell --
Doodler only, something to do
While watching commercials on TV --
Nothing more, and these,” I said

Gesturing down, “might not even
Be mine.”  “You claim to be
So patriotic while at the same
Time undermining our latest style
Of writing; what a twisted mind
You must have, you who call
Yourself an amateur.”

“Less than that,” I squirmed, grabbing
The barrow, backing away.  “A minor
Squirrel saving up for another time.
Who knows, a heavy rain might wash
It all away and I’ll be as though
I never existed while your style
Will mean everything that ever was.”