I hugged you
the other night
in my drugged up sleep;
I’d forgotten

until the day wore on
and the drug hangover
settled down
to a dreary hum.

You were not
the young kid you,
but older, mature,
sitting in an armchair,

in one of your
work shirts
open necked
without tie;

and we hugged
as if I knew
in the dream
you were dead,

but it didn't
enter the head;
no words were said.
I wish I could dream

that hug every night,
hold you tighter
as each night
came around,

silent like old movies,
father and son,
living and dead,
in the dream

inside my head.
I don't usually
remember dreams
in my drugged up sleep;

they're just a blur
of nothingness
until the dawn
pushes through

my lids to wake
to a dull day;
but that night
I dreamt I hugged you,

my son,
just us,
alone,
one to one.