(turn the lights down, just a little more, collect
your things and go. throw a red scarf over the bulb by
the bed—wheel the post-holocaust city model and let the

rats start the maze.) I'm walking in your dreams, Mr. President, on a white beach
bare feet leaving no footprints in the sand. This piece
of ass is the only real person in these streets. (pour a couple more buckets of oil on the beach

cover up the corpses, the effigy of Joe Public. kill the
rats). I almost called you up last night, knew the phone was right by
your head, but I knew that thing in your bed was down

visiting for the weekend and would pick up the phone, collecting
your calls—I hugged the receiver between my thighs and pretended I was collecting
piece of you through these dreams, it was you, down

on me, all night. (the simulation is complete. In a place by
the ocean, there is a Project titled: Armageddon. the
lights go off. Logoff. Clear the set, the blackened, sticky beach.

it'll take forever to clean up this mess.)

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Holly Day is a wife, mother of two, and journalism instructor. Her most recent books: Music Theory For Dummies, Music Composition For Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities.