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Olympic Dreams


Last night I did not dream of Jeanie.
It was me and Oliver Sacks–
We were in a contest to see
who could write better lines
seen by more eyes in the end.

I wrote as though I actually had a chance,
like my meager life could contend with his neurologist knowledge
about an anthropologist on Mars and an artist who couldn’t see color.

It was so funny that
the invisible me who was watching
had to laugh at the girl beside a Titan of a man.

They sat at a small, rectangular table in front of
a slovenly Walmart crowd. Voices were loud
and fists were in the air as though the two ate hot dogs
instead of used slow care to chase running words.

I woke up too soon to see more,
let details slip through with cats begging for food,
tried to ignore the nagging of a notebook/sticky room and
go back to sleep…

I probably lost the race, anyway.

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