In My Dreams
I am being pursued through Mexico City
by a taxi full of priests dressed in black.
I look back, their suits are identical & stylish,
they sport dark glasses & matching haircuts.
They sit bolt upright, look neither to left
or right, do not smile, indulge in small talk
or gesture at anything their taxi encounters.
They appear to be exactly the same height.
I am not used to teams of stylish priests
sitting in a taxi giving orders to the driver,
following me. These gents are obviously not
seminary boys from Maynooth or Stonyhurst,
I doubt they have family in Mayo or Donegal,
in fact can't imagine them as altar boys
even though there is nothing Calvinist,
Methodist, or even secular about them.
Their vocation fits them as though tailor-made,
their faces are smooth and pale, their soft
hands unmarked by cigarettes or work.
It doesn't matter what else has happened
in the dream, at some point their taxi
appears behind me, turning the corner
at the far end of the street, just close
enough for me to register the black suits,
their bland expressions, the lean over
to their driver, his nod & gear change.
Occasionally, they stop the taxi and get out,
look around, confer, and get back in.
If I can see the black case they carry
through the open door, they are too close.
by a taxi full of priests dressed in black.
I look back, their suits are identical & stylish,
they sport dark glasses & matching haircuts.
They sit bolt upright, look neither to left
or right, do not smile, indulge in small talk
or gesture at anything their taxi encounters.
They appear to be exactly the same height.
I am not used to teams of stylish priests
sitting in a taxi giving orders to the driver,
following me. These gents are obviously not
seminary boys from Maynooth or Stonyhurst,
I doubt they have family in Mayo or Donegal,
in fact can't imagine them as altar boys
even though there is nothing Calvinist,
Methodist, or even secular about them.
Their vocation fits them as though tailor-made,
their faces are smooth and pale, their soft
hands unmarked by cigarettes or work.
It doesn't matter what else has happened
in the dream, at some point their taxi
appears behind me, turning the corner
at the far end of the street, just close
enough for me to register the black suits,
their bland expressions, the lean over
to their driver, his nod & gear change.
Occasionally, they stop the taxi and get out,
look around, confer, and get back in.
If I can see the black case they carry
through the open door, they are too close.
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