Gale Acuff
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Maturity
In my dream my dog's driving me to school.
He wears glasses. He doesn't speak. He keeps
both forepaws on the steering wheel. He can't
be distracted. When we arrive he looks
over at me, telepathically
telling me that he'll pick me up at four.
Awright, I say. I open the door and
get out. I swing it shut. He leans over
and locks it. He drives away. I wake up
and remember that I don't have a dog.
I've never had a dog. My friends have dogs
--Duke, Brownie, Major, Fog, Wolf, and Lady
--but I don't. I've decided to call mine
Caesar. A noble name. He comes to me
in dreams. We play. I teach him tricks, feed him,
brush him. He's part German Shepherd and part
Alaskan Malamute. He's a good boy,
the best darned dog a fellow ever had.
But he's getting old--I'm getting older,
too: I'm starting to notice girls. My voice
is lower. I have hair in dark places.
I smell bad, especially my armpits.
I've stopped reading comic books and watching
cartoons. I want to get a part-time job.
I want to smoke and drink and stop going
to church. I need to plan for college now.
I want my driver's license and contact
lenses. I need new underwear. I need
to learn to knot a tie. I want to shave
--it won't be long now. With a straight razor
--for danger. I want to splash aftershave.
I'm tired of eating vegetables--I want
meat. I want to eat out and leave a tip
--sit there at a restaurant counter or booth
and calculate that 15% of
the tab. I want to be waited on. I
want to ask the waitress for her number.
I want to pick her up after work and
drive her home or to a movie or go
parking. I want to steam the windows with
my lack. And then I want to fall asleep
and wake up like I'm living in a dream.
--Gale Acuff
In my dream my dog's driving me to school.
He wears glasses. He doesn't speak. He keeps
both forepaws on the steering wheel. He can't
be distracted. When we arrive he looks
over at me, telepathically
telling me that he'll pick me up at four.
Awright, I say. I open the door and
get out. I swing it shut. He leans over
and locks it. He drives away. I wake up
and remember that I don't have a dog.
I've never had a dog. My friends have dogs
--Duke, Brownie, Major, Fog, Wolf, and Lady
--but I don't. I've decided to call mine
Caesar. A noble name. He comes to me
in dreams. We play. I teach him tricks, feed him,
brush him. He's part German Shepherd and part
Alaskan Malamute. He's a good boy,
the best darned dog a fellow ever had.
But he's getting old--I'm getting older,
too: I'm starting to notice girls. My voice
is lower. I have hair in dark places.
I smell bad, especially my armpits.
I've stopped reading comic books and watching
cartoons. I want to get a part-time job.
I want to smoke and drink and stop going
to church. I need to plan for college now.
I want my driver's license and contact
lenses. I need new underwear. I need
to learn to knot a tie. I want to shave
--it won't be long now. With a straight razor
--for danger. I want to splash aftershave.
I'm tired of eating vegetables--I want
meat. I want to eat out and leave a tip
--sit there at a restaurant counter or booth
and calculate that 15% of
the tab. I want to be waited on. I
want to ask the waitress for her number.
I want to pick her up after work and
drive her home or to a movie or go
parking. I want to steam the windows with
my lack. And then I want to fall asleep
and wake up like I'm living in a dream.
--Gale Acuff
Gale Acuff has published poetry in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Adirondack
Review, Poem, South Carolina Review, Florida Review, Maryland Poetry
Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry:
Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse,
2006), and The Story of My Lives (at press).
Review, Poem, South Carolina Review, Florida Review, Maryland Poetry
Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry:
Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse,
2006), and The Story of My Lives (at press).