of navy barracks building F,
one sparkly sunny Sunday,
Kevin dumped his twenty-six hundred dollar
fatboy bike on the close-mowed weeds.
Sprawled his nonfat self beside it
for a warm January afternoon doze.
He drifted into a eucalyptus scented dream
of whiskey-drinking grizzly bears
and schooners abandoned in the mud.
Black-haired children selling oysters
and strips of dried venison. speckled eggs.
A team of chestnut horses tow a Cadillac with a rope
of braided bed sheets and patriotic bunting.
A troupe of monkeys riding dogs follows close behind.
Their queen, a former governor, blows a red kiss
to the plaid flannel-shirted crowd. And a baby
in a bamboo pram points a pudgy finger
at the jalopies, horses and army trucks
festooned with candy characters
fresh from the evening news.
Kevin woke up staring at a Labrador
whose lolling tongue had dripped
a string of dog drool on his cheek.
The sun blazed on,
and up beyond the friendly lab,
on one of the unbroken windows
of the barracks, Kevin saw
a goat-bearded face with horns
spray painted in blue
on the backside of the dirty glass.
