do chickens dream of us?

do chickens dream of us?

 
it seemed like a mostly usual night, like a mostly usual dream

however it began with a couch and

there was a man with a beard and a woman with red hair
standing inside a crowd and

there was a hammer and nails and something was changing
something made of wood and

it was a house for chickens to live inside
or it was more like a stage where they’d perform

and when they came outside they stood on stepping stones
surrounded by dirt by muddy dirt

so someone in the audience said and maybe
it was the poet or maybe not and

that there should be more stones so the chickens
wouldn’t have to stand in mud and

then further announced

that only the hens knew better to step on stones
and not the mud

and just then

someone else stepped inside and stole every word
of this dream right away and

 
 

neil reid © august 2012 (and one willing dreamer)

  
comments:
And here I testify and certify this dream is for real.  I know because I’m the one who stole the words!  (with permission of course)  (although where would most writers be if not for an occasional raising of the skull and cross-bones!)

And to demonstrate that poems (including dreams) need not justify themselves nor have a point besides being exactly what they are, and we would do well not taking things all so seriously so much of the time!

Ever ride one of those small old-fashioned roller coasters?  This dream, this poem, they’re kind of the same.  To smile is like a door.