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.

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