Last night it was in a hallway of some institution,
maybe a high school, there were lockers along the walls.
He arrives with two people who I believe are my parents,
but they aren’t; they don’t look like them, or talk like them
but that is what I think in my dream. I walk out of an office
into the hallway, and there are my parents with Donald Trump.
I’m happy to see them, more Trump than “them,” as they’re
not really my parents, but it doesn’t seem important at the time;
Trump’s happy to see me, comes up and grabs my hand
gives me a gift box of soap, moisturizer and a hand towel
“You see? Who says I don’t bring you something? It’s for you.”
I think, that’s kind of cheap for a billionaire, but I look at it,
and at Donald J. Trump, and say, “Thanks,” and I mean it.

Another night, Trump and I are walking outdoors, maybe
behind the White House on the way to a helicopter, maybe
it is just a park, there’s no indication of where we are;
I have this great feeling walking with him, I really like him,
really, really like him. I say, “You should be yourself
more often and let people see the real you. They’d love you
if they got to know you; it’s hard not to like you, when you get
to know you.” Donald J. Trump just grins and keeps on walking.

I wake up in the morning and ask myself, did I really dream
about Trump again? It seems like I dream of him every night.
I wake up and remember Trump appearing at the oddest times,
popping out from behind a door, running past in a jogging outfit.
I’m in a store and he is pushing a shopping cart full of food,
really, really full of boxes, cans, bags, anything packaged.
Other nights, he’s just a big head that floats through whatever
is happening, obscuring everything as his smile never wavers.
Perhaps, some night, some dream, that face will continue to rise
above the far away horizon, a giant striding towards me, a mountain
shaking the earth beneath his feet, bouncing me like a pea
on a plate, “Good to see you. I brought you something.”

Or, maybe, one night, I will be the mountain, and thousands of little
Trumps will run around my feet shouting, “Don’t walk! Don’t Move!
You might kill me!!” millions of little voices amplified like a massed
choir of thousands and thousands of Alvin and the Chipmunks,
or perhaps like a drone of cicadas, or peeper frogs at night.