Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe

Where We Went and What We Wore

One summer we all had the same dreams, maybe because we all slept in C's bedroom,

layered with Holly Hobbie posters and old cricket gear.

In our dreams, our hats were carved of heavy wood, huge dark domes, and we wore them

in an Invicta, leading a parade.

We tied our hats in Brummel bows with long, blue arteries that blew back in the wind off the sea.

We wore viewfinder glasses, and as we moved, the Pentaprism lenses

clicked and refocused on armored mice, tiny sugared cakes,

something tied up in the trunk.

It struggled and banged to get out.

Before we could force a rescue we were pinned into a comic, and we had to read one panel at a time and

I remember it was difficult for you to turn the page, since we were part of the pulp.

Ink dripped down our faces when it rained, and you sang a song about two caves, one on top of the other, one fevered hot as love, one cold as forgotten love:

"The winter thinks of summer, and the summer dreams of snow."

When we woke, the words thrummed in my head although the hats and the lenses and the artery bows were gone. 

We ironed our satin pants and hurried down the stairs

to release whatever was still locked inside the back of the Invicta.