Do You Dream at All?

Title from Tilly and the Wall (MySpace)



We discussed my future over a meal.

Fries slathered in American cheese,

of all disgusting things,

and a slimy, greasy Monte Cristo burned black

and as satisfying as Chateau d'If.



I metered out methodical measures

of plans, likelihoods, and in-any-cases

in between big, throaty gulps of cool, black coffee.

And after all the lines in my speech

were dumped out on the table,

laying on sticky surfaces between the ceramics and silverware,

you pinched them up and examined them,

marveling at how down-to-earth I was:

shocked that I was such a realist.



And your voice couldn't hide that

you felt like you'd given me the wrong bus schedule,

or that you'd taught me to make a kite

but forgot the lesson on how to fly one,

when you asked, "Do you dream at all?"