1809

The dream felt like having me stay over,
I was aware of the words in sandbags
And this mutual wish for a rhythm
To invite us into its easily-begun circle.

When you go for weeks without washing your hair,
Oh everywhere car horns
And the shame anyone hides
From the rebels of routine

There you can get a scone for a dime,
It's never pulling on the phone cord --
A high water mark up to the crenellations
On the inside of the keep.