On Pimple Pond

On Pimple Pond Pocked, our dreams spurt from cabin walls. Woolen cover and cotton pillow catch pin point boils from day breaking, like pitted glass. White pebbled path meanders the hill’s cheek, wet from being squeezed by nights cold hard hands, to where set-tables will not wait our scrubs, pastes and pleas for clarity like hot egg whites. Yawns pop-jaws hinged under waxy ears. We pass the lake and spit the dregs of sleep onto her smooth glassine mask. At the mess ladybugs rest, on pickle-surfaced leaves, decline to fly. We arrive for breakfast. One hundred-twenty faces come to bond And maybe find a friend on pimple pond.