In every city, there's a room full of dreams
catalogued carefully, nuances of emotion,
scenarios you can scarcely imagine awake:
Honeymoons nestled with lost loves.
Anniversaries with chores forgotten.
Illicit joy with family laughter.
They are alive & renewable. The city never runs out of dreams.
A map of the city is on a big screen, filling the wall.
Streets & fields have been removed.
A grid of addresses & numbers,
rooms & beds. All accounted for.
A man in uniform drags each dream
from the margins to a house,
through the house to a room,
through the room into a bed,
the right side of the bed for
the right dream.
He hovers, uncertain at times.
It's artful & important work,
work that takes root but not
in the mind. Someplace deeper.
Does he know the false hopes he drops
on unsuspecting people
prone, disrobed, mouths agape?
I am not imaginative in the way that fiction writers are. Still, I tried my hand at a subject that I don't understand well, explained through a lens that's not mine, in a voice I don't use often. It's a dream vision.