Helen Poem by Charles Malcolm

I had a dream
after three pints of red beer
and a cup of clam chowder.

A silent woman
behind a curtain of white smoke
massive shades
and fire truck lips
clip-clopped past empty pews
in slow-motion
her high heels throwing echoes off the
marble floors and stained windows
like a horse in an empty parking garage.

She was tall
for a woman.

Strawberry blonde hair
that went black
as she caught shadows
off of dangling bronze extremities.

She strode toward the man on the cross
with a curious smile
and a tilted head.

The way that a rapist
watches the naked victim beg.

She turned
without interest
peeled off her glasses
and scanned the dark
empty corners
for my face.

Our eyes met
and she laughed
in an Australian accent.

I woke up
and went about my day.