Dream (Bonnie and Clyde)

We were in that hotel
 by the ocean.
You and I in that bed
 in that hotel room; the world outside behind
 the curtains dipping in the late afternoon 
You buzzed about 
with your things 
to do list, your book with 
all the places of interest, as if we could still pretend we had all the time in the world. 

I looked up at 
the tiled ceilings
 so high, 
the ancient frescoes 
 and chipped so elegantly, you the countess of the crumbling villa of my mind.

And somehow we made it so it did not matter 
that they knew
 where we were. 

It did not matter 
that they were 
out to get 
us and 
we knew they would 
sooner rather 
than later. 

It did not matter 
that when they came for us 
it would be forever 
this time; we both knew we had put off the inevitable for as long as we could, passed through all the boundaries, our bodies together and apart, hand in hand hurdling head first through all the fears.

The doorbell chimed as the alarm rang out, and you, on cue, innocently went to unlock 
the door
 for the delivery men just as you once told me you would, for that was your destined role.

I called to you 
not to forget
 to make plans 
for our trip 
to the countryside, though we both knew there never would be one. 

But before I got up to shower, shave and accept our fate, 
I watched you 
and made myself 
 what it was. No matter what happened now, as I watched you one last time, 
I swore 
that I would never 

what this room
 once was.

Then they burst through the door, guns drawn, murder and fire in the nozzles of their eyes.

Alone, I awaken calmly in my childhood bed (long ago converted into a guest room and office.) I'm not now an infant, there's no mystical return to innocence, the clean slate or tabula raza I've heard so much about. I'm just lying here in the bed I grew up in, me, who must now begin all over again knowing full well that there never really can be a beginning all over again for people like us...

Fort Washington, PA - 7/20/05