Howie Good
Mortal Dreams
Your old sick heart is powering down, becoming hesitant and vague, indistinguishable. So you board a train with the idea of appearing that night as a significant figure in another person’s dream. The trip seems to take longer every time you make it. When you finally arrive, ballet dancers rise on their toes. You don’t stop to admire their athleticism. The situation that awaits you across town doesn’t allow for it. You flag a taxi, climb in the back, state an address. The taxi lurches into motion. By now it’s dusk, and the dead petals of the world are falling.