The dream spills out within the dream.
The house within the house appears.
The entrance opens exactly in the place
Where I knew that it would be.
The trusted and beloved guide
Handsomely speaks where I can hear.
He audibly assures me
That I’m correct when I say,
The phone is about to ring.
It does.
The sound comes from everywhere,
But handiest right out of a hand-painted light bulb,
Which hangs down from the ceiling, just there, within my
reach.
But I am unwilling to answer it.
Why?
Am I afraid to hear the truth of the high calling?
Selfishly and fearfully I find a low place to hide,
Barely lit, amid the base filth of life,
And the things that haven’t worked.
My sweet guide speaks on, calmly and rationally,
His voice unaltered by my failure.
I worry some that now the master is on the way back home—
Not realizing that I, myself, am the owner of the entire mansion.
-jenn long
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