~

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of…

—Shakespeare

~

I Dream of a Goat

chewing grass

outside the sunroom

of my house.

Which is strange,

because I live in a development

and the only animals

I usually see are

cats and dogs and birds.

But then,

I not sure I’m in my house:

it’s darker, emptier

—only my chair and a bookcase.

Oh, 

and the glass doors

through which 

I watch

the goat 

are bigger,

 and in a different place.

It’s a large goat,

probably female,

although I don’t know

much about goats—

I think 

that’s an udder

back there—

brown, white chest and legs,

 and two small horns

V-ing down

into white stripes 

until they meet 

in a white mask

over a long nose.

At first, 

I’m curious,

but the goat starts butting its head

against the glass doors.

The damn thing’s trying to get in!

I can feel its

 onyx eyes drilling

into my soul.

I lock the glass doors

but one is loose.

When I try to 

tighten a screw

with my Swiss army knife

another screw loosens.

I go from

one sliding door to another

trying to keep 

the goat out.

But when I turn around,

the goat is in the sunroom,

its hoofs clicking 

like some Flamenco dancer,

chewing,

either finishing the grass

or the leaves of a book,

I don’t know.

I worry about shit

on the floor

(like pebbles, right?),

but so far, nothing.

I don’t even smell anything.

From a closet

that seems somehow familiar

I find a broom.

I wack 

at the goat.

It runs away,

but whether 

back outside

or deeper 

into my dark house

I don’t know.

For some reason,

I don’t care anymore.

Actually,

I’m tempted

to open

the doors and windows

to see who else

might come in.

~~