In the dream he tried to kiss me.

His sweet funny disposition

was a penny candy from my long,

somber childhood.

And then he kissed his wife

and his flock of tiny children,

on each of their tiny crowns.

 

I was a miserable wretch,

sleeping on a dirty mattress

in a stifling apartment

with my slovenly family.

Spiders of all kinds

marched across my headboard.

 

No one cared. 

There was nowhere else to sleep.

Terrorists plotted around the corner.

The city’s grid was gone.

It was now amorphous and infinite.

 

The comedian's lips melted into red wax candy; 

an unkissable mess, a soft, red aroma.

-         -         -         -

What kind of dream is this

in which the dreamer

cannot dream?

​

Copyright 2018  Rachel A Levine