by Christopher Hileman
I’m guessing you fly
in your dreams, flapping feathered
wings, and your breasts bound
tightly in mohair
that lets the wind pass on through,
chilling your heart’s blood.
I’m guessing you’re right
for me though no one else thinks
that and tells us both
to steer clear or else.
I lie back down when you’ve left
for work, wrapped up
and taking it all
in – all the signs, all the smells
you leave behind, shine
of a party line.
Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.