My Passport
In my dream, I lost my passport;
I was searching high and low
Though it wasn’t clear exactly where
I was supposed to go.
I was frantic as I rooted
Through my bag with all its stuff
As the line was inching forward
And I knew I couldn’t bluff.
But at last, I seemed to find it,
Zip-lock baggied, buried deep,
So I stuck it in a pocket
Knowing it would safely keep.
The analysis is easy;
There’s no need for Dr. Freud.
With my passport gone I couldn’t travel,
Which I’ve so enjoyed.
It’s ironic, though, that in the dream
There was a happy end.
In reality, my travel now’s
No better than pretend.
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