Red Shoes with Green Heels

     Splashes of brilliant blue sky passed through the holes in the roof.  Walls made with sticks and plywood, here and there, nothing solid.  Rafters pointing at an angle to the sky, only connected at the walls, not joining at the center, like the rib bones of a dead bull drying in the sun.  Standing in stark contrast to the brightness of the sky, is this my prison, is this my future, is this my broken soul?  No ceiling here or there, but no rain comes in.  Small shacks with dozens of people milling around, touching shoulders, but not making any sounds or connections.  Small shacks turn into a mall, sitting on a hill with no sides.  Gullies with mud and dirt, no grass or vegetation, caused by bombs and heavy equipment, always around but never seen.  Buildings jutting out over the cliffs with only small boards to walk on, over the dizzying heights above the gullies.
     Sheila leaves on the Olds, driving over the dirt road, now mud, now dirt, now water.  I drive alongside in my truck on the dirt airstrip, now mud, now dirt, now water.  I look up at her and we turn right.  We stop at the on ramp of the interstate to bale hay.  We can't because of all the garbage.  Instead we edge the two feet of grass alongside the interstate ramp.  It is straight up, move you Angus bull, I can't edge the grass with you doing jumping jacks.  I take the bush axe and perfectly edge the bright green grass showing the mars black soil underneath.  In the field, several people are baling hay by hand, among the white milk jugs.
     As I merge onto the interstate, cars whiz by on the outside and inside lanes.  I am walking down a city street in the center lane.  Hundreds of people are swimming downstream against me.  I slip in and out of the school of people with the grace of dolphin, not touching a one. None of them break the school wall and hit the oncoming automobiles, knowing that if they did the cars would take wings and fly away.
     Are these three maroon aluminum poles in my hand a knight's lance?  There is a handle on the end.  Let me look.  No, when I turn it around to inspect it I can see that it is a church steeple.  Long and skinny with a bulbous end, when joined together, will stretch over a hundred feet into the sky.  Just then, I see the cathedral, in the distance, where the rafters do not meet.  I know that I can walk the rafters and install the steeple,  I look down at my cadmium red dress shoes with the green Bahia grass seeds and the sienna sesame seeds held wetly to the John Deere green stacked heels and jump deftly from rafter to rafter.
     Night is taking over as I walk down magnolia lined Park Street.  Not as many people, but they are very sinister and look at me with hunger in their eyes.  Maybe I can get home soon.  Where is home?  Houses stacked on houses, some with walls, some with roofs, some floating, some half buried in the dirt.  Ah, here it is, a French Tudor.  Cream colored stucco with dark brown stained wood trim.  I am in bed.  People come in and out of the bedroom through the closed French doors, with white lace curtains.  With pillows piled high all around me to make a high wall.  People milling all around the room looking at me. looking past me, looking through me.  Talking and laughing with each other.  All I can think of is, where are all the ghosts?  It is lonely without them, I guess they are busy elsewhere.  In their place, the witches are brewing up trouble in a pot.
     I am asleep, is this a dream?  Could it be another dimension?  Just because I am asleep, does not mean that it is not real.  If I am awake, could I not be dreaming then?  Maybe all the pain and suffering, work, bills and headaches are really just a figment of my imagination that I can see only when I am awake.  Sleep may the reality with just a bit of surrealism.