skipping puddles, bending wind

from the week or so between Katrina and Rita:

i am
skipping puddles
in my dream
soggy garbage
baking
and my white nightgown
glowing
in the sunshine
it billows around me
with warm, stinking air
keys jingle
in a pocket that i forgot

it’s quiet where it shouldn’t be
and streets are not defined
from yards or intersections
i’m still hoppin’ puddles
and gross things
i am exploring for myself
without camera, crew, or slant
i navigate my way
around the remains of
a corner i used to know

a breeze picks up
that i suspect
is foreshadowing
something i’d
rather not think of
a name i don’t want to
acknowledge

except i hear a saxophone
far off
somewhere
i wonder if
that sound
is anything to believe in
or if it’s just me
bending the wind