Walt Taborski starred
In a recurring dream
When I was eight years old.
I dreamed I was dreaming
And kept hearing
A tap tap tap.
I thought the tapping
Was the dream
And woke up.
The tapping started again.
I didn't know if I was awake
Or awake in the dream.
I dreamed I was dreaming
I slid out of bed
And edged along the hallway
Toward the tapping
On the kitchen window
Facing the big blowsy roses
In the backyard.
When I got to the kitchen,
His face was in the window.
Framed by the roses
And darkness
Was the unearthly face
Of Walt Taborski,
Peering in, moving his head
Side to side
In his steel-grey fedora,
Stiff wool overcoat,
And coke-bottle glasses.
His eyes bore down on me.
I coudn't scream
And I couldn't move.
I couldn't look at those eyes,
But with those eyes,
I had no choice;
I could only stare
At the Peeping Tom
Petrified anything I did
Would cause him to burst in.
I inched away
Nearly motionless
As if slow
Would buffalo him,
And he wouldn't actually see me
Drift from his focal point
Imperceptibly backing up
To the perceived safety
Of my room.
At the end of the hall,
I could cut and run.
The sheets in my bed were cold
When I climbed back in.
In the morning,
And every time I dreamed the dream,
I never knew
If it was him
Or me dreaming
Him in the window,
And I never told anyone
About Walt Taborski looking
In the window
Until tonight.
---o0o---
In a recurring dream
When I was eight years old.
I dreamed I was dreaming
And kept hearing
A tap tap tap.
I thought the tapping
Was the dream
And woke up.
The tapping started again.
I didn't know if I was awake
Or awake in the dream.
I dreamed I was dreaming
I slid out of bed
And edged along the hallway
Toward the tapping
On the kitchen window
Facing the big blowsy roses
In the backyard.
When I got to the kitchen,
His face was in the window.
Framed by the roses
And darkness
Was the unearthly face
Of Walt Taborski,
Peering in, moving his head
Side to side
In his steel-grey fedora,
Stiff wool overcoat,
And coke-bottle glasses.
His eyes bore down on me.
I coudn't scream
And I couldn't move.
I couldn't look at those eyes,
But with those eyes,
I had no choice;
I could only stare
At the Peeping Tom
Petrified anything I did
Would cause him to burst in.
I inched away
Nearly motionless
As if slow
Would buffalo him,
And he wouldn't actually see me
Drift from his focal point
Imperceptibly backing up
To the perceived safety
Of my room.
At the end of the hall,
I could cut and run.
The sheets in my bed were cold
When I climbed back in.
In the morning,
And every time I dreamed the dream,
I never knew
If it was him
Or me dreaming
Him in the window,
And I never told anyone
About Walt Taborski looking
In the window
Until tonight.
---o0o---
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