Dream Face by Tom Pescatore

You take the little pieces
of me that rot and fall away,
and kiss them good night.

there is a room
that leads to another
room of the same size
that leads to another
room of the same size
that leads to still another
room of the same size
and so on.


the door cuts the back of each room.
a standing rectangle,
a single flight of stairs
leads up.

there’s a drug to share our thoughts,
there’s bodies sleeping on the floor,

you I we me step around them,
over them,

the windows are slits cut into the walls,
light barely fights its way through,

I look in the mirror.
I see myself.

I am surprised.


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.