In one dream, I open the door
after work, and walk inside.
There is my reading chair, solid
in the corner, a couch,
built-in shelves lined with books
about the Civil War, photographs,
paintings and art work by friends on the walls…
I step inside, but I don’t
turn on the light.
I shut the door, then lie face down
on the carpet,
winter coat all buttoned up, the galoshes
still covering my shoes.
It’s almost eight o’clock and the heater hisses out
a generous helping of evening heat,
while outside people are stepping
down from buses, cement trucks
beep in reverse as they back out of mid-city
construction sites,
and men in suits like mine stride past cubicles
gripping the handles of brief cases,
just as I’m doing now.
It’s a dream
so I try to open my eyes, but I can’t
because I’m wondering about the
heaviness, about the burden
of a life of things.

- Stephen Gibson