OK, boy, I've gone way off track here. I've done some scribbles, but getting to this site has proved impossible for days and days.
Yesterday, Robert Lee Brewer's blog posted a prompt: Write a sentence beginning "Don't you...." and use it as the poem title. So I just tapped out this one in, like, seven minutes. Gotta do something.
Don’t You Dream About Me
Don’t you dream about me. You got your papers;
you’ve gone up the coast. There are seven tracts
of land between us, five of which are farms
the government doesn’t know about. There are seven
months of bitterness. Things you think are secret
will be read in the lines between
north- and southbound lanes, classifieds,
curtain calls, eyes. So when you close the covers
over those bony ribs with the tiny star
under your right breast, when you close your eyes,
let your subconscious stray no farther
than those seven farms and months,
some of them guarded by triggers
that could flick in a blink.
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