Children dream of monsters in the dark.
Normal, the experts say.
The self fears its new and undiscovered growth,
And so screams out.
In middle years, the anxious dreams of threatened self-importance;
Naked in the street, speechless before a theater,
Assigned to teach a class where you are ignorant,
And the students have no patience.
But in old age, I find, the nightmares are of loss and confusion:
A wrong turn somewhere, a missed connection,
A mistaken off-ramp, and no return on the other side.
You seek the way home, but there is no way.
There are people, but they do not help;
They are mute, or indifferent, or in the worst dreams
Mad with some irrelevant obsession.
When you finally understand that here you must remain
You wake to your accustomed bed,
Relieved and hoping
That you have not foreseen the realm of death.
