I Woke From a Dream

I woke from a dream of the end of the world

screaming your name and I knew then

that I was going to marry you.

It’s been a year and my days have swirled

into hours of excuses on your answering machine.

I’m afraid to start something new.

You've given me so many paint brushes

and I've given you a journal scribbled with reasons

of why I don't want to take you home.

If only I had the time to tell you my dreams,

maybe you could interpret them

and the seven lean years would be swallowed up.

But as it is, we're done with school,

we don't live on the river anymore,

and we're one year closer to the end of the world.

Portraits of Past People

Because you left abruptly

and never answered your phone,

I painted a portrait of you laughing

amid piles of shattered clay pots.

Before light one morning,

I took this honest representation

to the graveyard on Kings Highway

and hung it on a dangling tree branch.

Policemen showed up at my door this morning

after calling your mother

who told them where to find me.

And all from my inscription

on the back of this image dancing in the wind,

“Rest in pieces, Roger Price.”

Tomorrow morning, after light,

I’ll put finishing touches on the last of the likenesses

of the eight drifters who have fallen into life with me

then rolled right out—driving or riding or walking away

from Minneapolis with my phone number tucked

into their back pockets.

I’ve fixed these panels into the arched windows

of the empty, brick warehouse across the street

from my day job. There you all are,

looking through prison bars, surprised or weeping,

every 5:02 PM as I make my way home.

Four poetry workshops given at the University of Minnesota comprise the extent of Michael's training as a poet. Michael has self-published one book of poetry titled, "Vain Danglings."

Copyright © 2011 Michael J. Peters & Fire In The Eye Studio. All rights reserved. Site design: Michael J. Peters.

University Bus Stop

A red glove beneath the bus shelter

gives composition and humanity

to my minutes of shallow anticipation.

Girl walking by, black-click-clocking boots—

have you me my pet imagination?

Our non-verbal conversation

would have been much more colorful

if you had. This lost clump of red cloth

on the gray pavement, near the gray snow

matches the ad on the bus shelter—

something about sex or fear

or giant cattle prods that motivate money

out of the hands of the masses.

And, I’m short five bucks for parking.