poetry
Leave a Comment

Olympic Dreams

image

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…

Fail.
I probably lost the race, anyway.

Say something!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s