#382: Poem on April 8, 2021

The prompt for today was to write a monologue from the p.o.v. of a deceased person, in the style, say, or at least inspired by, Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. That’s a pretty good idea. But my heart’s not in it–my computer was shut down and I was trapped in the study with dogs while my partner taught a piano lesson in the living room. Away from the prompt and finding myself going back to a physical notebook, I picked up a pen and wrote about last night’s dream. It’s rare that I remember dreams vividly–especially all through the next day, so I thought this one might be worth recording.

Poem on April 8

Last night I dreamed
I was drinking a beer.
I was fully aware
that I was five days shy
of my goal of 100 days
without alcohol
and part of me
was ashamed
and another part
of me just
didn’t care.
I want to be high
on something,
I said, and, not
being one for smoking
or other kinds of
chemical amusement,
I was drinking a beer.
It wasn’t even a good beer.
And something else
was wrong. I was at
a writer’s conference
at which no one
was writing. The people
I met there didn’t know
the first thing about it.
I was in the wrong place
or in the wrong time
and I was drinking a beer.
I think the dream was
a sign that I should go
the full 100 days
without alcohol.
Before that day arrives,
on the eve of that day,
I will dream of a tumbler
of whiskey, and I will
be some place, any place,
really, where people know
who they are and
exactly why they’re
writing or drinking
and it might even be
the same reason.

Published by michaeljarmer

I'm a public high school English teacher, fiction writer, poet, and musician in Portland, Oregon

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