This is one of my "dream" poems. I remember the sensation of waking up in a strange place (I'm dreaming this, remember), being asked by some remote, impersonal voice to produce something that would identify me.
I knew there was this slip of paper in my billfold, but I couldn't find it, couldn't, in fact, find my billfold. I kept searching and searching.
Then I woke up. The dream would have been lost, had I not scribbled something on a scrap of paper as a reminder.
I don't usually dwell on the meanings of dreams. Sometimes they mean nothing more than the excesses of a late-night snack. Or they may reveal deep-rooted frustrations, unattainable goals, hunger, thirsts, fears ... all the makings of a poem
Still, I try to save them all. I don't always manage, but I try. And here's today's:
TAKE A PEEK
My billfold
contains a slip
of yellow paper
with the name
of the President
written on it.
I feel secure
having it with me,
like a number,
next of kin,
to be called
in an emergency.
Perhaps someday
after surgery,
responding to
trick questions:
What's your name?
Who's President?
I can say,
"Take a peek
at my billfold.
There's a slip
inside. It's all
I've got left."
©
1995(originally published in Potpourri)
***
Today's word:
identifyAfterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Thank you so much for that comment, Hechan. I'm delighted when something I've written strikes a chord with a reader ... serious, light, thoughtful, or just interesting ... As I often say, so much depends on what the reader brings to the poem, and you've brought a great deal to this one. I appreciate your sharing with me ... and others. And I do hope you're feeling much better. Welcome back!
1 comment:
It doesn't pay to be sick for a week and not look at your delightfully profound site and yet light if I want it to be. I am so glad to be back amongst the living...it wasn't that bad, but I missed a lot by not checking in. I'm glad for what is here. It has a good effect on me and takes me from thought to thought and place to place. This one did. The first time a doctor asked me who the president was, I stammered because it came as a surprise. Just don't ask me what day it is, now that I'm retired. I can usually figure it out.
This same doctor, a pulmonologist who shouldn't care if I knew who the president was to cure me, asked me the same question. He also gave me three words to remember and warned me that he'd ask me later what they were--much later in his office. He popped into the "room" I was in and asked me...this was fifteen or twenty years ago. I told him that the first was--book, the third was paper, and I had to think about the second one since it made no sense, but I came up with it. He looked in his notes and said how well I'd done and that he couldn't have done it. I told him I noticed he had to look at his notes. I knew his little game meant something to him, but still not sure about the importance of it. I asked him what it later when we became "friends" and he said that all good doctors should ask that. Maybe I should carry notes around.
Anyway, your chat and poems always bring out--as mentioned, the profound and light thoughts. It spins me out of my ordinary thoughts or embellishes them. Thanks!
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