Overslept

The dust is settling

and I am covered in it.

Like a ghost riding in a caravan

I trace memories on the stagecoach window.

If I could do it differently

I would be indifferent, uncaring.

Rub that sentence out, rewrite:

Backed into a corner, I surrender.

Rub that one out too.

Shake off the dust and keep moving.

That’s the one I like.

I am no ghost.

I am not dead.

“Ticket please,” barks the agent.

Behind the Red Door