I’m really good at dreaming. Yah, I know
a dream is nothing, insubstantial. Poof!
It’s gone. Of course it never really was.
A garden in the Tuileries? It’s just
a corner overgrown with weeds. A dream.
Another dream: I’m standing in the class
ignored, irrelevant, and I drone on
believing everyone is listening.
I’m in the peloton, The Tour de France,
and join the breakaway on alpe d’Huez
despite the cobwebs gumming up my chain.
At least my dreams are not in black and white
or worse, in shades of grey like films noir
where everything and everyone is dead
or will be dead or might as well be dead.
They’re simply dreams. A quiet waste of time.
A momentary pause. A hope. A dream.
And then the world, reality returns.