The fever makes me dream I'm on an airplane
with an impossibly smooth and speedy flight,
sitting in the window seat next to my father.
I'm home for November.
The plot gets waylaid a bit until I'm wandering
through the streets of my childhood neighborhood
meeting people that I've never actually met.
It's suddenly June.
In the basement, their spacious house hides
a high-tech post-apocolyptic bunker
complete with rows of washing machines.
I must be November.
I stop on my way out of the too long foyer
to play with the puppy that's appeared.
I used to dream about this house as a child.
I remember it's June.
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