A Dream from November.

My Pappy speaks only sweetness and fear when he asks me, "Ryan Scott, who do you think God is?"

We sit together on the floor in the den. 

Ceramic logs in the gas fire place bake his heart.
I recall following the same smell from my bed where I woke
cold and alone during the ice storm of 1995.
I found my family gathered in the den talking
with reverent voices, their faces flickering.
I found them as if they had hid from me with
the distinct intention of giving me something to find.

Now, only Pappy's face is flickering.
The ceramic logs have burned black.
He looks to me and asks,
"Who do you think God is?"

An almost dawn in November of 2018, 

I woke and stared at the wall. 

"Do you know who I am?" 

The thought makes me cry. 

I feel a great alien-ness. 

A cold, indifferent
attachment
to my room;
this,
the hospital bed
in the scene
of my death.

There are no corridors emanating bread
to follow,
for reverent voices to echo down.
Just a window
beating back the first chill and soft light.
And a radiator that I forgot to turn on.