Surrounded by a dream, vivid and alive,
Wandering disarranged hallways,
Reaching and running for elusive awards.
Touching the dream, warm cotton or flannel.
Noticing the dreamer, apart from the sleeper,
Stepping between asleep and awake.
Mrs. Pauley is squawking again. I spring onto our porch, ducking among potted plants, just like a secret agent.
“Mom! There are squads across the street!”
At the screen door, Mom wipes her hands on her apron.
“That mess is none of your business, bubba.”
The officer shakes his head as Mrs. Pauley’s mouth moves. Our landlord is there too. I wonder why. He rubs his forehead, checks his watch.
They guide her away from the house.
“Forty years!” Mrs. Pauley squawks, “Forty years!”
Her cane falls. I compromise my secret agent status, dashing to catch her, but she crumples.