Drift Back and Sleep

Drift Back and Sleep

Fred Johnson

After dusk, the loud voices
and the loud drums, the cars
light up and the dirty dog
stays small and dirty, sleeps
fast in still dark corners—

I slide from dream
to moonlight, headlights
rise and flicker, revolve and slip
from my wall as cars arrive
and signal, wait and wait,
receive, retreat—

Rotten trunk latches
rattle, rotten exhaust
systems and door handles,
but the rotten dog sleeps
pretty well, envisions
the rabbits and passersby,
the moments when tooth
meets tooth through tough
meat, deliveries—

I leave my lights off.
I put a water glass in the sink.
I watch a car leave.
I drift back and sleep—

In the morning,
a new prelude,
deep resonance
and some screaming
in the fog—

She says You-you-you-you-you-you—
He says You… You… You… You… You…

And the little dog sniffles, he jumps—
and a train calls out the time—
and we leave our windows open all night
and all day, the dog begins to sing—

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Fred Johnson
Teacher & Writer

Fred’s writing has appeared in North American Review, Sugar House Review, Relief, and The Curator. He grew up in the Midwest and now teaches courses on literature, writing, and film in Spokane, Washington. He misses the thunderstorms, for one thing.

Photography by Yigit Arisoy