Late Dreams
“Are you real?” A valid question
In a world of plastic manufactured
In lands far away. Even the buzzing
Light bulbs were a little too round.
The man with the orange scarf leaned
Kissed her smooth cheek, like
Magnets pushing past resistance and
Touching quietly.
The hurried movements that blurred
Into blackness didn’t strike me as important
As the first part. At times, I want to ask
The trees if they’re real. Sometimes the world
Seems a little too round.
But then soft wind pushes past my fences
And combs the hair out of my eyes. Of course
It’s real. The lake massaging the shore,
The steam curling out of the cup, staring
Across the table at a bright face
It’s all real.
Even if I want some to be fantasy
And smudge it away.
