February

I dreamt I was in the office.

A package came,
for some vague reason, announced.

I stood up
and remembered
graffiti on the wood
stake fence
beside the T-Mart
in Dolton.

I pushed the arms
of my chair
underneath
my granted desk

such that a thin, imperceptible
layer of nylon
was shed, and fell,
it's echo
arriving on a factory floor
forty years before
near my father's feet.

"A knife!"
They said,

And I made my way
from the back door
across the backyard
to the stopped line
of torpedo cars

Walking in my socks
Toward the mail slots.

At some point,
I was the cause of fire.
And that surprised some.

There was a polite struggle;

A severe angle

wrapped in crayon and
construction paper.

Someone mentioned forge-fire,

and there was a contest:

Something I won
in the cul-de-sac
back amongst the trails,
or something
I was allowed to win.

In the end,
a river-wrapped
blade
washed up in the
mail
near my desk.

My co-workers and
direct reports were
embarrassed.

And well they should have been.