I must have dozed off reading Basil Bunting’s

“Briggflatts” poem, every other stanza

had me groping for the dictionary.

Just before heavy eyelids began to droop

I saw what looked like copious tears weeping

down my windowpane, an exploding summer

thunderstorm must have ensued as I got lost

in a dream.

Like a Chaplinesque vagabond I wandered

around gazing through plate glass windows

watching diners, dancing couples, and waiters

rushing back and forth, arms laden with platters

of flambeed chateaubriand, walleye pike

and fiery Sambuca.

I roamed barefoot though fields within fields,

a phalanx of blood- red roses brought tears to my eyes.

A scent of smoldering sweet grass filled the air,

a doe with soft brown eyes nibbled at my toes.

I climbed on top a caravan of aircraft-inspired

aluminum bodies, vintage Airstream Caravels

reflected in a brilliant silver light distorted

by a panoply of Coney Island funhouse mirrors.

I tap danced across their roofs like Gene Kelly

singing in the rain, herds of peacocks shimmied

and shook alongside, flaring their feathers

like Gypsy Rose Lee.

I awoke surprised to find myself in bed

lying cheek to jowl and bone to bone beside

my wife’s cold feet prepared to remain immobile

for all eternity. Being dead is not so bad

when you’re not alone.