when you lived in a house on Primrose Lane
it happened one night you were drinking chartreuse
and slept a sleep so sound and so deep
you dreamed of a poem
a beautiful poem that longed to be read
but knowing full well there were spies all around
foreign agents and fellow travelers
and knowing what lay in the hearts of third men
a poem you kept was a poem you kept hidden
pressed like powder in jeweled compacts
or shaped into bricks and taped to your chest
you smuggled it out of your dream like hashish
a red light was glowing a whistle was blowing
the train leaving Istanbul seconds away
suddenly men were shouting in Turkish
they pointed their pistols
you dropped to your knees
then everything changed as it will in a dream
you sat in a kitchen
tearing the crust from slices of bread
Norman Bates sat across from you staring
what do you know about caring he said
and your arms were too long and your hands were too light
and there was your house on Primrose Lane
chartreuse bottle still on the table
finally it seemed you were leaving the dream
then Norman smiled like a knife when it’s bent
and a white Ford sank in a black water lake
along with your poem and Marion Crane.