Exercise: Write a prose poem about a dream, but don’t say it’s a dream.





The driveway was muddy. There were still a few snowbanks around the yard and small house. I parked my car by the well and up on a small rise away from as much mud as possible.

Opening the door to the empty house, I was met with the stale smell of abandoned rooms and old carpet.

I was not sure why I had come back to this place. Memories of life here were beginning to resurface. 

The crib had been in this room. The cellar door was heavy and ancient. It was like a giant trap door, and took up almost all the hallway. 

The back bedroom was moldy on the ceiling just over the window. The closet floor had been patched with old license plates to keep the rats out.

Familiar curtains were hanging in the living room windows. There was not a sound, as there were no appliances in the kitchen or electricity to run them.

Darkness was coming. Why had I come here?

This house was no longer mine, yet I was here wandering through rooms I had once inhabited. Rooms where I had existed, not lived.

I looked at the door wanting to fling it open and run. This place was not where I belonged. The well was empty. It was cold here. I shivered.

A car pulled up the driveway and a man and woman stepped out and knocked on the door.

“Come in” I said inside my head, and I opened the door. I gave them the tour. Livingroom, kitchen, hallway, bathroom, bedroom.

“Cute”, the woman said.

“Who are you? I asked.

I couldn’t understand what they saw in this place, but handed the key over and went to my car.

Driving away, I saw them in my rear-view mirror, unloading their belongings.



Diane E. Dockum

© April 11, 2023