this was the dream last night

the poet, left to his own devices was nabbed by the cops

who kicked down the door to his cold water flat utilizing

extreme footwear causing it to hit the floor in a cloud of dust

making an otherworldly muffled sound as it did,–– the sound akin

to what a muted tuba might make when puffed into at the lowest register.

once inside, the cops grabbed a handful of scribblings from the messy table

and waved them with the force of authority to the undocumented poet's face

who sheepishly declared: “those aren’t mine”.

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

that was the dream last night.