-the night of the raccoon-

the facts of the case:

because of my early, albeit intense introduction of the interiors,

(tenement, school, church, 1953 Pontiac Chieftain)

I came to realize that any living thing flying or scurrying around the inside,

which would naturally belong to the realm of the outside, will become a horrifying

event to human inhabitants.

even a fluttering starling in the parlor will cause an immediate panic,

what with visiting uncles, aunts, the kids, a hamster or two...

doors and windows are flung open, there's screaming, brooms and rolled-

up magazines are at the ready, eight people scattering in different directions

and one kid’s holding a can of “RAID”! 

but because of these experiences, or in spite of them, I sleep with the bedroom

door closed and Wednesday night I awakened to a distressful scratching sound

from the other side and I don't have any pets.

striking the croquet field and the sighting:

a week prior to the bedroom door-scratching incident
as I was pulling-up the little wire wickets from the lawn,

an arduous task requiring intense optical scrutiny and a keen
sense of the field-of-play. (miss one and at next summer’s backyard

deck-party-cookout there’ll be hell to pay.)

I looked up from the pulling of the fourth wicket and there’s a raccoon

walking leisurely along the eastern tree line parallel to the river, quickening

its pace before it vanished into the thicket between the intentionally maintained

lawn of the backyard and the neighbor's unsightly stand-alone one car garage.

the return from the flashback:

as the scratching at the door ebbed, I got out of bed as quietly as possible,

listening then inching the door open.

nothing’s there.

looked for droppings.

floor’s clean.

looked for animal piss.

floor’s dry.

looked for a note on the door

and there it was:

“saw you standing on the croquet field on Wednesday  STOP

  you saw me, too, didn't you  STOP
  why don't you answer when I come calling  STOP"

epilog:

the dream is sporadically recurring and sometimes when I wake up,

tucked within that narrow breach between sleep and consciousness,

that space where dead friends begin their retreat and the falling,
the falling,
      falling,
            falling, begins to lessen in its effect,
I find myself puzzled by how I stumbled into
a crazy dream about a raccoon scratching at my bedroom door
and at the same time questioning what in hell I did with that note.