Heat Stroke

It was a particularly balmy and oppressing
Afternoon towards the latter part of August.
So I retired for a brief nap and, to my disbelief,
I awoke some ninety-seven years later.

Spiders had displayed their architecture
Between my right earlobe and the rusty iron bedpost,
And a light layer of dust had gently settled
On the crevices of my paling, wrinkled skin.

I roused myself from this epic slumber and
Hence noticed that my north facing window
Was slightly ajar, and a sweet cool breeze
Shimmied in through the crevice, inviting me outdoors.

Clumsily I strolled down Culpepper Street
Attired in my thread-bare, faded cotton shift.
Expecting stares and looks of unease or disgust,
I garnered mere indifference from those who passed by.

Only the clouds and the trees in the corner park seemed
To conspire; and as I strained to listen to their
Barely decipherable chant, it became increasingly clear that
They were whispering of a stranger who had come to town.