Last night I had one of those dreams.
The ones that haunt me
long after I am awake. The one
where all the Transcendentalist writers
come back from the dead as zombies,
roaming the national parks.
And I’m there, and I’m camping.
Grilling hotdogs, or something.
The details probably aren’t important.
But, something growls, low but faulty
like a broken engine, at the edge
of the tree line. I look up
and it’s Zombie Walt Whitman.
And he’s come to eat my brains.
So I fight him off
with a campfire poker
and a smoke shifter.
Why a smoke shifter?