-The citizen-

last night I wrote Pablo Neruda’s “The citizen”.

the dream didn’t portray me in the process of writing it down,

but somehow implied my authorship of "The citizen".

at one point a gang of three came to me representing

a certain authority asking about “The citizen”—

of how I came to write such a poem.

one aggressive young man pulled-up a chair and sat

at my table, his sharp elbows indenting the oilcloth

and his little polished fists with their scrubbed-red knuckles

pushing into the sides of his face waiting to hear me address

the meaning behind the carpenter's implements of “The citizen”.

this happened as I sat waiting to be served inside a small beatnik-type cafe

at a table beneath a large wall poster of Nina Simone,— her full face, black

on-black, mic to the mouth, her eyes lidded in song, and at the base in slim 

blue type: "NINA".

it was as if she was being introduced, as the juke began bopping:

"Mississippi Goddam"–– and when I woke-up, the vision of that poster

hanging inside the small cafe, and that voice from the back of her throat,

and the true purpose of "The citizen" had me agonizing over what was real,

and what, but a dream.