The prompt for day one of NaBloPoMo18 was "What's your dream?" When I read the prompt I was sitting on a small stool at the farmer's market where I work one of my part-time jobs. Rain was pounding the corrugated plastic roof and customers were scarce. I realized dreams -- the kind where you wish for something, not the sleeping kind -- are something I rarely think about. They don't matter much to me at this stage of my life. Or maybe it's just that I've been teased by them too often. I don't tend to tempt fate with dreams these days. I know that sounds cynical, but I'm more likely to deal with what's in front of me than to imagine that things could be different. So here is my dream poem. What would yours look like?
Dreams
Bleached fish bones
Musty towels, forgotten in the washer
Chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a school desk
Spill of sour milk
Torn paper bag
Empty toilet paper tube
Cup of cold coffee
Cheating boyfriend
Dried-up bottle of Chanel perfume
Frayed rope swing
Rusty roller skate
Lonely clown
Damp wadded tissue
Faded for-sale sign
Pair of deuces
Smear of rancid butter
Blood on a clean white sheet
Backed up toilet
Moldy Wonder bread
Unresolved chord
Squirrel-eaten November jack-o-lantern
Missed shot at the final buzzer
Scratchy moth-eaten wool sweater
Flat tire and no spare in the trunk
Toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a shoe
Torn ear on a feral cat
A surprise package in the mail.
Love your poem.
ReplyDeleteThank you. I know it's kind of weird, but it's... well, it's just honestly how I feel a lot of the time.
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