Poem Number Three: January, 1983 - Girl's Night Out.

Not much of a wild night.
Don't know why I went all the way down to the Bridal Department to meet Stacy in the mall.
She is so in her element there. She is at home with satin, lace and seed pearls.
The Valley girl who works part time and majors in Fashion
Merchandising told me she listens to my show when she pulls late nighters.
I may be divorcing, but at least I have a fan.
And yes, I will play more GoGos.
Stacy and I head to the established hometown restaurant where we always went when
one of us graduated, got engaged or had some other milestone on our lives.
What was I looking forward to besides hanging out with Stacy?
Fresh butter. This restaurant served it with their house made dinner rolls.
And they had the good sense to let the butter get a little soft when they brought it out.
No butter rocks here. Oh and yes, a dark beer, please.
After a perfectly cooked steak smothered with mushrooms and onions, baked potato and piece of fudge cake; we went to her house with the lovely guest room.
Stacy invites me to her aerobics class to work off dinner. Why not?
Instead of a movie on cable, we share dreams that turn into night terrors.
Both of ours start out really happy.
Something to do with getting on an old fashioned train.
We have to stand up, but it's fun; everybody there is laughing and having a good time.
At what, though?
We go somewhere and serve food or maybe cook for some lavish buffet for older people; people my parents' age.
And then, the nightmares begin.
Stacey describes a different place, but we both start out together.
I see a lot of name tags from Australia, but the ones from the U.S. will have 'Texas' or 'Ole Miss' instead.
There's got to be a way to get to the bottom of this; it's making us nervous.
Stacy says the bloody dream dictionaries are useless.
We'll go to that hippie shop by the college tomorrow.
If anybody knows anything about this, they will.
It seems a little weird to share even a king sized bed with Stacy, but we are serious about getting to the root of these dreams.
Earplugs. I snore; she snores.
Relaxation and sleep give way to terror; I bolt up awake in bed.
Stacy does, too.
Who do you see? I describe mine.
Stacy says hers are different, and they're over there.
Our images are sharing the same room, but not on top of each other.
At least our inner demons have manners.