the lady wakes up, dismounts the bed
hair all matted,
face creased with dry earth slits.
her dreams revealed in spoken gushes;
a beacon of light nothing but a pin in her eyes,
but we gather round.
she says she was working in a hospital,
scraping human shit from fancy plates.
“freeing myself from ego maniacs” is her daylight freud
we the slumber party laugh a chain gang,
wondering about last night’s lasagna party
and all those plates painted hard and crusty with red ragu;
soon to be greeting us in the kitchen
all us earthmates knowing hot water be the ticket.