Fearing The Salute
Maybe I had been reporting, verbally
A football game, in dream’s labyrinth of coiled, misted tunnels and illusions,
From whence I emerged,
Bags suspended from cold fingers,
Into an hotel’s parking-lot, then was beckoned
By a strapping crooked finger and was by a glowering brow urged...
Perhaps views had been endorsed, unusually,
The Austrian’s mind, in dream’s montage of drooped 1970s moustache and disguise,
From which I recoiled,
Children settled in rear seats
Of an outrageous purple convertible, I reckoned;
Thus into an entrapping charisma’s potent souring, I became embroiled...
I was dreaming this. I had reported on a soccer game, in some form or other, left an hotel and was walking, bags in hands, across a car-park, when Adolf Hitler, in 1970s attire spotted me, appeared to accept my fair reporting on a German loss and offered me a lift in a low dark-purple sports car, which changed into a Berlingo, oddly, then immediately back into the fast auto. Two children were settled in the rear seats, then he sat in the driver’s seat but I needed to place my bags in the small trunk of the vehicle, causing Hitler to get out with a sigh, as I pulled his mobile phone from my jacket’s right pocket...
Not the most pleasant of feelings...