I dream of my dead father
dying,
still.

The other night,
I was pushing a wagon,
surprised to see my dad
not yet dead
within the wagon.

I turn to my mom,
shocked, excited to inform her
that he wasn’t cremated after all
but was back in our lives
and, in fact,
was standing upright in the cart
balancing on one foot –
and then
there he was
on the ground
before the stopped device,
head shattered
urine-stained
encircled by blood and mucus
everywhere.

“Never mind,”
I muttered to mother,
in dream,
and woke up
a little disappointed
but really,
no worse off
that I was before.

Just a little unsettled
is all.