In A Dream An Earthquake
I meet a man I've always known
who is taller than his voice
We walk among a silent crowd
and talk of ancient poetry.
A long lost love dwells
in the attic of his heart
an Italian sports car that never
leaves his garage.
In an orchard we toast
with glasses of pink champagne
The wine begins to tremble
tangerines dance in the trees.
A car alarm cries in the parking lot
complains over and over to no one
but the birds shaken from frightened
limbs of crape myrtles and sycamores
mountains crumble before our eyes
but we care most about the wine
running between our fingers like time
we smile and embrace in fond goodbye.
About the Author: Sam Culotta is retired and lives in Southern California. He is the author of two books of personal essays and a book of poetry. His prose and poems have appeared in The Write Place At The Write Time. Buffalo Spree Magazine, Avalon Literary Review and Rockvale Review, as well as an anthology of works with Joe Green and Timothy Smith.
Image Credit: Bain News Service “Los Angeles Earthquake” (1920) Public domain photograph courtesy of the Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 