In this dream I meet a favorite duo from the past.
I owned six of their albums in my college days,
knew ninety percent of the words to most of their songs,
could intertwine my voice around their startling harmonies.
Or at least it sounded that way to me. Possibly others.
Everyone seemed to have been into them. The duo, I mean.
A male and female who ended up married to each other
at the release of their third collaboration, divorced by the sixth.
At which time I lost track of them, or they quit the business
as folk music had receded by then like a high river after storm.
In the dream I am talking to them, discussing lyrics,
chord changes, origins of some of the ballads.
They look just as they did on their album covers.
And maybe I do too. Look the same as I did back then.
Because it seems the woman is coming on to me.
Leaning in close and braless as we sit cross-legged
on a psychedelic hemp oval in front of a fire still burning.
Her lips inches from mine.
And the guy, I’m not sure where he is, the bathroom maybe.
He’s been gone for quite a while now, which is a little scary.
He might be into handguns. Who knows, after all these years.
He could nightmare this situation at any moment.
Except in my dream I control the moments, control time.
So I am taking my time. Leaning in. Closing my eyes.
Barely breathing. As if already wounded by loves lost.
Stephen R. Roberts has published in various literary journals including Alembic, New Laurel Review, Runes, Willow Springs, and - finally getting to the Y's - Yemassee and The Yalobusha Review. He has five published chapbooks, the most recent ones, Small Fire Speaking In The Rain (Talent House Press, 1998) and Rhubarb DeSoto (Pudding House Publications, 2004). Steve lives in Westfield, Indiana.