Remnants of my Saturday Morning Dream
The old victorian house
is perfectly rickety
content in the state
of itself shifted and
unevened over time
In the streets around her
panic – human mayhem
worse than termites in wood
or bees behind a wall
yet the same in their
buzzing destruction
to exist
In the sky – translucent
black orbs floating to
concrete and mud
the stepping out of
holograms – ballroom
dancers sashaying
over bridges
into backyards
There is no threat but
the unbelievable –
the seeing of a thing the
eyes don’t know
how to believe
Yet inside the house
as I witness a man
stealing a chicken
from our coop
I do not feel afraid
I can hear the fattening
hum of melodies
our children are safe
in the swaying age of
the wise dwelling
Listen I whisper watch
look at the light
how it explodes from
the graceful legs
the bended arms
the necks curving
around the notes of
an extraordinary change
VANESSA SHIELDS, writer 