Last night I was back in the old neighborhood
where I grew up, and I was shown that it wasn’t
a neighborhood anymore, but in reality a stage.
This stage was being disassembled, the props
were one by one being hauled away by invisible
stage hands — it had all been a theater production.
First the asphalt streets were being dug up, leaving only
the gravel beneath, then the deconstruction proceeded
to my old playground — reducing it to mounds of dirt.
Little by little, the old familiar world was disappearing.
Scene by scene, my past was systematically taken down
to make room for somebody else’s present, I suppose.
When I awoke I immediately understood the dream,
sometimes we can’t escape the obvious — the firing squad
takes aim, then fires, and we know what happens next.
How can I be nostalgic now for a time that never was?
I have been shown my future by a glimpse into my past.
All I have is what’s here now, and I really don’t have that.