THIS MORNING'S DREAM
I’m in one of those canvas mail carts: a kind of dolly with four sides, an open top, a wooden floor, and four wheels. I’m sitting on a package and I can barely see over the side. Someone is pushing me; we’re going under an elevated highway, the BQE or 279 over Sandusky Street. He’s male but I can’t make out his face. Suddenly he’s not there anymore. I wonder how I’m going to propel myself; I imagine that if I had a paddle I’d be alright. But next thing I know I’m traveling west on 42nd street among a fleet of yellow cabs. The cabs push me along at just the right speed. I fail to wonder what will happen when we get closer to the Hudson, but anyway 42nd Street lasts forever, or until I wake up.
I’m in one of those canvas mail carts: a kind of dolly with four sides, an open top, a wooden floor, and four wheels. I’m sitting on a package and I can barely see over the side. Someone is pushing me; we’re going under an elevated highway, the BQE or 279 over Sandusky Street. He’s male but I can’t make out his face. Suddenly he’s not there anymore. I wonder how I’m going to propel myself; I imagine that if I had a paddle I’d be alright. But next thing I know I’m traveling west on 42nd street among a fleet of yellow cabs. The cabs push me along at just the right speed. I fail to wonder what will happen when we get closer to the Hudson, but anyway 42nd Street lasts forever, or until I wake up.
posted by Karen Lillis at 2:17 PM
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