Today my skin smelled like chlorine,
even though I haven't been in a pool since October.

Last night I went to bed early.
I didn't call you like I said I would.

I had a dream where I tumbled down a dirt ravine,
things spilling out of my pockets along the way.
And in this same dream, I stood inside the gold vault
at the Federal Reserve and calmly watched as the 90
ton steel cylinder, that is set into a 140 ton steel and
concrete frame, shifted closed.
Watched the sliver of light, as the cylinder spun,
get smaller and smaller, until nothing.

And in this same dream, I sat in the pinkish bathtub
of my grandmother's Pennsylvania house's bathroom.
Fully clothed as an adult, but the size of a child.
The child I was the last time I sat inside of that bathtub.
I could hear sounds all around the house, but it was as
if my head had been plunged under the bathwater.
Muffled, with echoes.

This morning I went to the doctor, the same doctor as always.
He is getting old. He told me "Everything looks shipshape!".
I think I feel okay. I don't know about shipshape,
but okay seems like a reasonable assessment.