In my dream two nights ago, my friend and I were stealing large tables from a church. We spotted a police officer, and my friend said, “We’ll rent that box truck!” Quickly, I threw my table into the back of the truck and leaped in after it. WHAM! I had launched myself out of bed and landed on my knees. Crime doesn’t pay, even in my sleep.
In trying to come up with appropriate hashtags for this poem that I wrote last night, I did a search for “moving in dreams.” I’m not going to dignify the results. As with most searches I make these days for “what does it mean if I [fill in the blank],” Google supplied articles suggesting that I am in the early stages of senescence. I suspect the little boys and girls at Google are having a good laugh at my expense.
Back to reality…. Obviously, Susan woke up and asked why I had landed on the floor. I spared her the details of the dream until morning. But she went and got some arnica cream for me to rub on my knee caps along with an ice pack to prevent swelling. I lay there feeling the chill on my knees and contemplating the end of my walking days. Two days later, I think I’ll be fine. But Susan has mentioned a guard rail. And she definitely wants me to keep a pillow on the wooden chest that my face would hit if my knees don’t hit first. She isn’t worried that I’d lose my good looks. It’s my cranium that concerns her.
(background photo by Jay Mantri on Pixabay)