Prose

I was unable to determine
with any reasonable degree of accuracy
whether the rather strange-looking hat
worn by the woman who sat a few seats ahead of me
on the trolley was real.

"Perhaps," I reasoned, "what I'm seeing
is nothing more than residual feedback;
a by-product; an after-burn, if you will,
left over from one of a series of dreams
about women's hats I've been enjoying
while nodding off at intervals since boarding."

The woman, who in some regard,
reminded me of a cadaver
I'd once played with as a child
in the basement of my family's funeral home,
appeared disinterested, or perhaps unaware,
as I walked over to where she was seated
and gently fingered her hat.

"It's real," I said to myself,
as I cautiously made my way back to my seat...
"the damn thing's real."


Determining The Reality by Francis X. Reilly @FamilyFriendPoems

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