Fernophobia

Nearly dawn
near the border:
Seconal, Valium, booze.
No one expected
the slow opening of eyes,
least of all
the man among the ferns, dismayed.
This was to be the longest sleep,
the rest, at last, so well-deserved.
Imagine his surprise:
dew-soaked, a slug
across the bridge of his nose,
no shoes or recollection.

***

Ron. Lavalette is primarily a poet living in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.  Like most folks with an abundance of time on their hands, Ron. blogs; and because he likes to keep things eggish, he calls his blog SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED.  He’s not quite dead yet.