dream of a dream

this event is taking place
in a spasm of time     unlike
a dream    i can walk up stairs
without leaning against
a wall      feeling the cold wet
paint against my cheek    carrying
a son to bed    there's a man with a
large feline head waiting in
shadow     this place is carved
out of a nook in my memory
i have been there daily
but here it is never the same
it is unnerving    without
footing     purchase    relief
concrete    there is a realness
to it that is grating    like words
whispered in the dark    failure
fatherhood     around each turn
the hallway creaks    yawns
air heavy and black felt-like
and suffocating     heat
regrettable death

This is the first line of a novel

I've told so many lies in
my life, I'm not sure how this
should go,

I remember Hoffman park
with its old green
bridge that seemed taller
than anything I could think of,
it was worlds away and I never
dreamed anyone could reach
its tracks or know where in
some magically dark world it
traveled,

There were those large cement tunnel
pieces outside the picnic gazebo
strewn about and like Franklin's snake
scattered but whole,

There was something of another
time about them, something old, like the gods of
our forgotten imaginings dropped them there
to wait for us and I could stand inside
without touching my head,
they were so incredibly big! I remember my
Father would chase me, how he could
block each end no matter which
I tried and he would grab me
and yank me out,
I could never get away

until I found out where the tracks led
and I rode them everyday to
gray, worrisome destinations
and guess what, they painted those
pipes green now,
they're so small and sad
sitting solemnly amid the cigarette butts
and broken glass of 20 years,

I looked the park up on
a map yesterday, it was a green square
and there were no pipes and
no children,

tho I still think of it sometimes
in the loneliness of night
and I wonder if maybe my father does too