We are in Kansas, Toto

Louis Faber

 

In my dream, the world

was at peace, and I was riding

across Kansas on a unicycle, towing

my car, packed to the windows,

my dog walking alongside urging

me to speed up because she

wanted to visit South Dakota.

 

I am due for a tricycle, I

remind the dog, “the grave

more likely,” she responds

with a sneer that teeters between

love and spite, always precariously

balanced, as is her food bowl

on the roof of the car.

 

I could tell it was a dream

which is not often easy

from its midst, by the utter

lack of churches, synagogues

and mosques, none to be seen

and the Great Blue Heron

nesting in a scrub pine

on the shreds of Holy Books.

 

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