Dream 8noc17

I pulled her hair back,
gripping her by the elbow to steady her
as she puked over the staircase railing.
In between her heaves,
she explained how her father had pitied those at war.
“He was a true pacifist. He’d never fight,”
Sirens went off in the distance.
“and he never got angry.”
Some explosions sounded.
I wanted to explain to her
even Jesus and Buddha got mad at times;
but now wasn’t the time.
As people started yelling fire,
I helped her down the rest of the stairs,
pushed the bar on the exit door;
light and smoke filtered into the air;
we walked out of the building
and went to a bench that rested under a tree.
We could see the fire trucks
and their red lights dimly through the smoke.
As we sat down, she remarked.
‘I think I’m paying for those bread sticks.’