In my dream, the woman blond as desert
sand, leaning against the darkened man, kept
staring at me, pulling at her white skirt
as if it were a rip cord. Her guy leapt
to his feet, howling at some untold joke,
riddling vast walls with his automatic;
turned framed photos into confetti; spoke
in rapid babble, gunfire like static
from a giant concert amp. No one ran
away. Couples kept on dancing, talking
as he stumbled through the club. Cops began
to cordon him off, a blue line stalking.
Bullets slashed him, sent his carcass skidding.
Slumped, smiling, he wheezed, “You guys weren’t kidding.”
Roger Armbrust
May 6, 2007
