Dreaming
Last night at Pollock Place,
I called my wife into the den,
and we drank wine, marvelling
over something in the newspaper;
a little boy
who after a moment of sleepwalking
ended up in the middle of Wolloston Lake,
he almost drowned, they say…
I mean, can you imagine?
just dreaming like that,
and all of a sudden,
you’re just standing there,
and the wine is poured for one,
and the den’s in really bad shape,
and you never have company,
and the phone was disconnected long ago,
and, and, and
it might be time to go… but
you stay, and pour wine again,
in blood-red crystal,
dreaming.
Copyright © Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein | Year Posted 2011
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