Poetry from Tony Longshanks LeTigre

was it just a dream?
so many things that happen in San Francisco
were like a lucid dream, looking back
like the time i hopped the gate of a vacant Victorian
in Pacific Heights (owned by the hospital across the street
& gathering dust for two decades),
& the back stairs started falling apart
as I scrambled up them
& inside, the house was like a dusty city
on the edge of forever, & how strongly I could
sense the ghosts of the servants who once
toiled in that now cobwebbed kitchen
with its faded & ripped open wallpaper
& how strange it was to be all alone
in that eerily quiet mansion,
slowly ascending the creaky stairs at night
by the light of a candle, telling myself,
“don’t be scared — don’t be scared — there’s no one here but you”
—& anyway, did it really even happen,
or was it just a dream?