Dreams used to sit with me
on a busted stoop at dawn,
swinging their feet to a blues beat
One wore a scuffed glove,
talked about outfield grass
and a crowd holding its breath.
Another carried a worn Bible,
kept practicing sermons
on pigeons and passing men.
They were light then -
thin as harmonica air,
sweet as a promise hummed
through a cracked speaker.
But yesterday
kept its coat buttoned tight.
Wouldn’t share.
Just kept walking.
Now the dreams
pack up before morning,
leave a note in chalk
that the rain understands too well.
The one who loved books most
still argues with ghosts -
teaching poems to empty desks,
grading papers the night forgets.
I ask the street
where they went.
The street shrugs -
it’s seen this before.
Some dreams drown in rent.
Some get tired of waiting
for tomorrow to show up sober.
Some just fade,
like a song you loved
but never learned all the words to.
Still,
when the sun leans low
and the night taps out a slow beat,
I hear one dream linger,
soft-footed, stubborn,
tuning itself
in the dark.
And I hum back,
because even disappearing things
like to know
they were heard.
GBS jr
2015
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