It was my dream
when my grandfather
rode up on his motorcycle
and tossed me a wrapped canvas kit
of tools. Greasy wrenches
and screwdrivers so old
that the walnut handles
looked like rocks.
I had been in trouble for a long time.
Everyone was an asshole,
all turned against me
all of a sudden
and for no reason, no reason at all.
This time it was serious trouble
of my own devise, trouble
I should have seen coming
but did not and
everyone, absolutely everyone
was unavailable.
In my dream the motorcycle
was this Harley from the first war,
more like a motorized bicycle except
for all these rails and fenders
and places to strap things on,
things like blankets and guns.
There was nothing strapped to these rails
in my dream.
They all turned on me.
One at a time, then all at once.
I was just being myself.
I said at once what came to mind.
If I was stupid, they should understand.
They should forgive. Friends and family.
It was a while before I saw how it was.
How it wasn't.
My grandfather died when I was eight
with half his brain removed from cancer
with one dead eye looking out opposite his caved-in skull
with most all his thick white hair shaved away.
In my dream he was different, more like the stories I heard.
He winked at me from his motorcycle like we were old, old friends.
He flicked his wrist too fast to see.
The canvas tool kit flew toward me from the blur of his hand.
I woke up before I could unwrap it,
woke up more or less alone.
I tried to remember
if he had said anything.
I tried to remember the tools themselves,
how he had arranged them,
what they were for
but the memory escaped me
though I've looked for it ever since.