Her arm furled, curling around my flesh, warms me

as I lie there.  Naked as a bookshelf in an abandoned attic, 

I grin like the crescent moon does across the deep. 

And in less than the blink of an eye, I’m at Emmanuel

dressed in suit and tie, those church pews glaring at this young man.

Steven King novels, once scattered amongst my feet,

now chase me into the classroom.  Ears popping like popcorn

in a microwave, I stare out the window.  Clouds erupting beneath

the flying metal bird feather my eyes to rest.

And I drift off in dream of Parisian days. 

Wet grass bites into the heels of boots.

Camouflage uniforms stand still as China’s Wall.  Mosquitoes,   

invited in by Katrina’s carelessness,

where the mouth of the sea meet metropolis,

swarm without warning.  I dare not move.

I walk on sidewalk to the front of Chatham Square,

where iron rectangles on wheels ride in, resembling

blue and grey caterpillars.  Shuffled aboard by a salad

of college character, I stand with limited space for loitering.

Engines rumble like bottled thunder, en route to the Magic Kingdom

Memories of my September spin inside like a ceiling fan.

At last the twilight of my teenage years. 

Like a T.V. signal during a hurricane, I am lost.  Backstage,

under a bed of old pictures, there is a compass.

A long way from the way, it leads me.