Recycle, One More Time (Dream Journal 4/93)
Each week, I have the same dream three or four times.It's not exactly the same dream, but I dream it the same way. I wake a little past two. I know it is a little past two because a light from the house next door shines through my window, casting shadows from a sycamore onto the opposite wall. My bedroom is brightly lit, and the clock's glowing, green hands read 2:10:30.
I n the kitchen, I move around in the dark, let the water run until it's cold, while staring out out the window. A woman stands next to our recycling bin, sorting through the bottles. She puts good ones, the ones she can get money for, into her shopping cart.
My neighbor Gus yells at her. "Get out of there, you damn poacher, or I'll call the police."
Instead, he pulls a revolver from his jacket pocket and shoots twice into the air. The bullets streak into the dark like wild comets.
The woman yells, "Fuck you!" before pushing her cart down the street. She breaks a couple of bottles in the driveway.
my body floats to the surface like so much rotting mango