This Must Be Another's Dream

I’m walking backwards up a hill. A light turns red; I go into the ocean with some cats. There’s one that I don’t know. He says, “Your clothes don’t even match. Your shirt is inside out!” I say, “That’s quite an eye you’ve got” and feed him to a trout. The trout, all stuffed and happy, does a little dance. I join in until the cats decide to steal my pants. I change into a wedding gown and waltz into a war; the soldiers take a coffee break, and then it starts to pour. I run for cover underneath the top of Eiffel Tower. A soldier from Iraq appears and in his hand, a flower. I bend to kiss the violet rose when swarms of butterflies come buzzing by with wings like nets and chasing little guys. Regis Philbin peeks at me and shyly starts to coo, “Forget the million. Guess who’s got a secret crush on you?” When Richard Simmons trudges in, I know I’ve got to gripe, “This must be another’s dream. That woman’s not my type!” An oldie for the 'May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2' Poetry Contest of Chantelle Anne Cooke