Three Poems: Henry Walters
morning dream You tiptoed behind the scrim and I said, “Ha!” and put my hand through it, but it wasn’t you, it was Abe Lincoln from the penny the train had flattened the face right off. The profile turned to me and it was you, come back from a long trip north to the U.P. mining copper in overalls you said were hand-me-downs from your last life as a real estate tycoon, which, who knows why, or if it was even you, but the overalls, the overalls were true.