Tassos is having a dream
on a rainy, cold night.
I’m up writing and surfing the web.
I hear him in agony calling my name,
the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard.
I never reply and wait.
Back to sleep he is and I back to writing,
curious about the touch felt
on my right hand.
He’s a teacher, in an unfamiliar village, of martial arts.
Content, but his gut feeling tells him something is off,
then I appear, peaceful and laconic, in his dream.
“The lesson will keep me here for a while, my students… Go.”
“Go where?” He cannot answer. Says, “I have to stay here.”
“Stay where?” I ask, as I leave and coldness surrounds him.
Dad shows up inquiring whether I had been there,
putting his hand on Tassos’s shoulder says,
“Hope with all your heart she returns. You have no other way out.”
On tactful nights,
sensibly take place,
whether we’re up
and about, busy
with the lust
such dawns of brighter
days ahead, or not.