The Eleventh Day, A Dream
It was the eleventh day after I’d died, they were meeting at the Dublin, where I first went in 1990, and where I’ve been going on and off ever since.
(My folks chose the right place where to mourn me)
Here’s about a dream this morning,
a party in which I saw
my mother, my sister,
my wife, our son, his wife,
our grandson,
my brother, his family,
three colleagues, two uncles, an aunt.
I was not in the party.
All the men wore smart-casuals,
save my son who prefers the suit.
The women were in saris.
My grandson had been tucked into the traditional,
a pre-folded white dhoti and a little orange kurta,
both made of silk.
He was crying to go home.
There was banter, and light laughter,
the clinking of glass, and metal on metal,
spoons scratching china.
I wasn’t in the party, but I could see them,
I called, but they couldn’t hear,
I went up close, but it was no use.
It was the eleventh day after I’d died,
they were meeting at the Dublin,
where I first went in 1990,
and where I’ve been going on and off
ever since.
A perfect choice of place it was,
even if the Dublin’s a bar, and
an unusual venue to send up a soul;
'cos you see,
it’s to the Dublin that I hurry,
anytime I need to soothe my soul,
all on my own.
Photo by Hunter Desmarais on Unsplash