I’m wide awake. At least I think I am.
It’s hard to tell. I mean I sometimes think
I am awake but then I do awake
so I suppose I could be dreaming. If
I start to fly or float among the clouds
or find myself in Italy again;
if I am riding in the Tour de France
or planting out the perfect vegetables
that grow and ripen over night, well then
I’d know that this is just a dream.
But even in my dreams I sleep and eat.
I’m not a superhero all the time.
I am a coward walking down a street
that never ends. . . alone on Moonstone Beach
where Sisyphus is laughing as I try
to stabilize the waves and fuse the sand.
But no, I’m wide awake just sitting here
and staring at the books that line the walls.
Can you be bored and boring in your dreams?