The Mud Heart

In the early morning hours

coming to 

from a fitful dream,

I am never

more innocent

than when asleep,

my personality laid aside

on the chair

by the bed,

just another piece

of clothing,

my face flaccid 

as a drained balloon

like an old man’s tattoo.

In only my underwear;

the trunks of a tired swimmer 

flailing in sea-blue sheets.

Before I resume operating

the spiffy dummy 

that mouths

my sentiments

pretending to be me,

answering to my name.

Before I become the mind’s

heartless accomplice,

before the imposition 

of self rule

sets in,

before the shame arises,

before the kindness kicks in,

before the mirror measures me

to corroborate that

I am 

who I claim 

I am,

before my body 

reminds me

I am older 

than ever before,

before I hoist my hair’s

pale flag of reluctant surrender,

before the light of day

exposes my spiffy dummy

to the 3rd degree…

I had a dream,

a dream 

that will matter

to no one

but me.

A dream 

destined to be  

swallowed whole

by the

fractious, fictitious facts

of the light of day.

How much more alone

can anyone be?

That said 

or asked,

the last thing 

I remember

is a stranger handing

me a heart 

made out of 

mud,

still wet, 

still malleable,

generously given

to show me 

I can still 

be loved.

Peter Valentyne

August 4th, 2019