Slowly, painfully,
I gathered it together
And lay down to sleep,
clutching my life, my pillow.
Feathers of dead birds,
sterile echoes of lost flights.
A bill collector appeared,
flourishing old bills.
"Your father gone, and mother,
who will pay for these?"
I turned to the telephone,
one disconnected.
I looked inside the mailbox,
full of dead letters.
I searched through files and desk drawers,
all bankbooks cancelled.
Only one thing left to do—
to wake, and escape.
It was a lettuce morning,
crisp in pale sunlight.