I Dreamed I Lived in Austin

By: Albert Huffstickler

I dreamed I lived in Austin
with legs like a sparrow
and a hungry heart.
I was looking for God
but kept finding people—
strange little people
with pieces of their bodies missing:
an arm, a leg, a nose, a belly button.

They kept offering me ham sandwiches
and telling me I was going to die.
I’d already died, I told them,
chewing mightily and wishing I
 had some water.

That was just a preview, they said.
Next time, you’ll really die.
And they marched ahead of me,
flip-flop, as I combed the streets
searching for God.

Suddenly it was night
and I was standing on the edge of town
alone.

A cold moon shone over me
and the lights of a little café
gleamed down the road.

An old man wobbled up to me and said,
“Well, here I am.”
“God?” I asked.
“Who else? Got a quarter?”
“Yes.” I gave it to him.
“Let’s make it to that diner,” he said.
“Refills are free.
I’ll tell you anything you want.”
“For just a quarter?” I asked
God chuckled. “Got a cigarette?”
I gave him one.

We made it to the café and ordered coffee,
hunched in a booth in the warm room,
the lights soft and comforting.
“Anything special you want?” God asked,
taking another cigarette from the pack
and lighting it with my Bic.
“Love,” I said. I started to cry.
“O.K.,” he said, patting my arm
with a bony hand.

The room vanished and once more
I was in Austin. I was fifty-four
with legs like a sparrow
and a hungry heart.
She stood before me, eyes
misty and tender.

“God sent me,” she said.
“I know.”
She offered me a ham sandwich
and told me I was going to die.
“But not for a while,” she said
and took my arm.
“Good enough,” I said.
“I’m not going to die for a while,
I have you,
And God owes me a quarter
And two cigarettes and”—
I felt in my pockets—
“a Bic lighter.
Would you like to hear
what I dreamed last night?
“Yes.”
“Well, I dreamed I lived in Austin.
I was fifty-four
I was looking for God
but kept finding people.”
“And love,” she added.
“Yes, love,” I agreed.
“I think it’s a set,” she said.

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You can find this poem in — Why I Write in Coffee Houses and Diners:  Selected Poems

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