I woke up looking at my pants.
A habit formed by childhood dreams.
Though nothing’s wrong, though all is well,
I find my throat is full of screams.
I saw his claws. His talons sharp.
The talons tearing out my skin.
His beak, with streaks of dripping milk,
Announcing loud my count of sins.
The dream is gone, the vision’s there.
The vision’s playing Hide and Seek.
As I am it, I count to ten.
By eight, my pants are wet. They reek.