Dawn

In my dreams, homeless men wander
past my window, disappear
into gaping mouths, filled 
with champagne and laughter.

Buffalo rush down my street, 
reclaiming times when they ran free 
before Custer and Congress made
their land safe for democracy.

Skeletons crawl from old graves, clatter
along my walkway, chains rattling, 
speaking of Armageddon, until I wake, 
muscles taut, stare out at dark pines, 
hunched like scared children 
awaiting the safety of dawn.


Pris Campbell
©2004


Art: Orphelia by MacDonald

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