Last night,
I dreamt I bought you from a store
like an alarm clock, or a carton of eggs,
or a folding green lawn chair.
I filled my pocket with change.
I kissed your forehead.
I set your pink body in a car seat
(softly so you would not break
any of your fingernails or your weaker bones).
I pulled your fingers away from the jamb
and I set them on your lap
(softly so you would sleep, I did not make a sound).
I shut the car door (softly, once more);
I saw your flushed peach-red face,
and I was afraid I would leave you
in my basement
(softly, my dear, softly)
by the radiator,
and my books,
and my dusty ex-lovers:
all the things I’ve bought
and loved and put away.