Michael Heffernan The Idiot It must have been the middle of the night.
I could not tell. I walked around in fright,
truly appalled at what might happen next.
I thought I should grow gradually unperplexed,
but this was madness still. My friends were gone
or would not come. I contemplated one
scenario that seemed a kind of dream
I had not wakened from. I heard a scream
moments before I woke, or thought I had,
and was not certain whether something bad
had happened or was happening, or was
this altogether normal, since it does
actually get this odd in present tense,
I asked myself. I can be awfully dense
sometimes, and who knows, maybe I was dead
and had not realized. Something in my head
produced sequential noises down the hall,
enormous scraping sounds, as if a wall
were being torn down behind a rancid cloud
of bulging dust. I knew I would find a crowd
of emergency personnel when I went out,
but the hall was desolate. Without a doubt
I had been hearing things. I don’t know why
I am telling you all this. I mystify
myself too often to account for it.
I am going to have to stay here and just sit
awhile, conceiving what to do, or keeping
quiet, wishing I could go back to sleeping,
winking in peace at pungent dreams and thoughts,
rather than obfuscate myself with bouts
of frenzy and distraction. Something here
is not quite right. There is a good deal of fear
that gets the better of me. People who think
I’m crazy scarcely know how close the brink
can rise to my poor feet wandering along,
while I come humming some forgotten song
I picked up years ago at a bus stop
from music playing in a record shop
on the corner by the little pizza place
with kosher cheese. The glass brought me my face
inside the Star of David on a slice,
and thus the bus came. Everyone was nice.
They showed me where to sit. They gave me food.
I strayed a long way from the neighborhood.