Three Dreams
Introductions
In the second dream, the one that woke me,
the judge wouldn’t look at me, my voice
box gone or I didn’t dare use it—
he knew what to push until I cried.
Condemned to mediocrity, my work
was not brought into evidence.
I could make it better.
I could make it.
I could.
I swear I did my job.
Most Renaissance art is lost, we’re lucky
to have a few baby pictures, first steps
dancing between worlds, collapsing space
where we share one candle, a clump
of weeds on the same wall as gods.
I skipped town ahead of the Medici
in the third dream. They want me
to finish what I start.
I forget the first dream. My grandparents
sold milk, then their farm, moved to the city.
People said our children should live better
than we can afford.
I take a break at the bottom
of the double-deep grave,
dirt cut square with the neighboring
vault. I don’t know you
and I don’t know him,
but you guys are gonna be fine.
Do it right, get it done, get out.
I stand on the hook, whistle,
and my co-worker pulls the chain.
That wasn’t so bad, was it?
Later I watch the family
from my truck, boots on the dashboard,
I spit sunflower seeds until
they’re ready to let him go.
I’ll drop the lid on the vault,
climb back down,
kneel and check the seal.
As the earth pours in
I’ll chop and shovel,
spin and pack,
step up and pack,
step up, dust off, walk out.
David Richards is a writer and software developer. He lives with his family in the Utah desert. His work appears or is forthcoming in Sugar House Review, Nurture, UCity Review, Indianapolis Review, Cola Literary Review, and Emerge Literary Journal.
