‘You ever been drunk in a dream?’ Chance queried,
and I thought it was all real, despite the white swim
suit and near knee-high boots. That’s a strippers
wear, but then, in sleep format it didn’t seem to register.
A bamboo shoot doesn’t need to go up into my back
heel to wake me up. I suppose it’s that uncanny feeling
that nothing will turn back canny, and then it clicks:
this isn’t real. The sky bar, the class reunion, that creep
sharing my mom’s name. It was Chance that drew the perfect
circle around the mole on his back. And then we shifted
over to another room and her boots were soundless along
the way. We exchanged numbers and I made a crack about
the outfit. I guess I’m always on.