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? 

Sleep tight. 





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.