Mike Wilson

“Doctor, Am I Crazy?”

My doctor rolls his eyes, gives me the

number of a colleague, says I need

to have my head examined.

He’s very good, and handsome to boot,

so off you scoot!

Phone service in dreams is notoriously

spotty, but I finally find the hot-sought doc

to determine whether I’m dotty.

Binocular-size coke-bottle glasses

weigh on his turgid German nose

as he prepares to expose

my private parts.

 I wave a stop sign, flip him the bird.

“Mein Herr, aren’t you aware that there

are cameras everywhere, that if thoughts

were farts, yours would be turds, and that

you’re just plain butt-ugly?”

Herr Doctor rubs the blackheads on his chin.

Just tell me I’m handsome

and I’ll declare you sane

and our business here will be done.

And now you know what they’re looking for

if you ever need to have your head examined.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

I wake in the small a.m. and wander

to the living room lit with light cops

shine in eyes during interrogations.

The furniture’s gone!

                                   The beige carpet’s

sticky and stained from careless candy-

eating. A wet spot leads to a puddle.

Guilt collects between my scapulae.

This fugue crime scene is hidden inside me.

                                    #

I discover our couch on the porch,

a divan big as a small sedan I couldn’t

have carried out by myself.

I run to tell my wife.

                                  Honey, something

happened! But she’s showering in the

woods, can’t hear, or else I’m not clear.

I spot Puck wearing my dead dad’s jacket.

His smile sucks my light.

                                    #

I clutch bedsheets, paralyzed, realize

this is an astral event I’m halfway in

and halfway out. Evidently I shout.

My wife shakes me awake.

                                             You had a

dream. So it seems, but not a bad one.

I trust Puck is sorting me out for love.