Squirrel

by Ralph James Savarese

 

In my dream, we’re all
in bumper cars—
some blue, some red,
some a mix of orange and yellow.
The cars have huge front
and tail ends, like a ’59 Cadillac,
except they’re encased in rubber.
A sign reads, “Socially Distant
Amusement Park.”
When the light turns green,
we’re invited to bump
one another—
at whatever speed we wish.
“Don’t worry about injury,”
says the announcer.
“Touch! Touch!”
**
Once, on the subway, a man
put his head on my shoulder.
He hadn’t fallen asleep.
He wasn’t “disturbed”
or “disheveled.”
Every careless cliché
a spent lightbulb,
a broken umbrella.
He had a beard, I recall,
and his nose seemed needy,
like a squirrel foraging.
**
In the dream, my wife thinks
we’ve adapted well
to our new circumstances,
though her neck is stiff.
“Relax, brace. Relax, brace.”
All touch is only
half-innocent.
**
For twenty minutes I sat there,
my new friend at my neck.
“It’s my stop,” I said,
freeing myself.

---

Ralph James Savarese is the author of two books of prose, Reasonable People and See it Feelingly, and two collections of poetry, Republican Fathers and When This Is Over. His creative work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Fourth Genre, New England Review, Ploughshares, Seneca Review, and Southwest Review.