I Dreamt I Took Nick's Insulin

Initially for safekeeping. He gave up the pen,
chunky as the twenty-coloured marvels
of secondary school, and I slipped it
into my old pencil case; I have carried
loose biros since college, their contents
more than once drenching
my wallet in sticky black lava.
I don’t remember giving it back,
just like I don’t remember losing my spoils
from another dream, younger than five,
in which an orange fuzzy monster
chased me through caverns
and every step of the way
were Smarties hung on walls. I think
I cried when I realised on waking
that though my chaser was zapped
by the sunlight and playschool and my mum’s arm
on my shoulder, and I was safe,
I had no chocolate with which
to celebrate the day.
Such things matter. Unfamiliar
with the format of this inconsistency,
I searched a few places I could have stashed them.
No joy, and I understand now. Sort of.
Nevertheless, Nick, if you get this,
three rings, a prank, a text, a pigeon.