I remember my dreams in the lines between an article
in yesterday's newspaper. There was more interesting news
on the front page. The article was buried in the cold zone
of a weather report. It was the record high for the city
where it happened. There are 200 dreamers in the metropolis.
It never rains when I dream. My eyes are brown and sometimes
green in my dreams. The night is broken by my footsteps.
I am walking slowly into the news of my melody.
I am partly blind and sometimes sunny. My dreams are humid.
I am occasionally in the city of my thirst. The roads are being paved
while I dream. The traffic turns left into my dream.
They drive new cars into my past. They sleep at rest stops
while I write letters to Dear Abby. Over 200 dreamers subscribe
to my newspaper. They are sound asleep now.
They dream the newspaper cover to cover.
Their dreams are reprinted in the pictures.
The pictures are sent to the sleepless nights of the city press.
The deadline is the home team's last at bat. The 200 dreamers
are on the visiting team. Their manager wakes up when the traffic
comes to a stop. He drives an old car lost in the city's network
of dreams. He asks a reporter for directions. The reporter writes
a story that the home team went to work while the dreamers sat out
a rain delay. Their uniforms are clean and sometimes dirty.
The grass of the infield grows high so stories will be slowed down.
The paper of the scorecard is green so the pitcher will remember
the color of his eyes. He throws a curveball that curves right
in my dream. My infield wakes up in the dawn of our victory.
The smell of the fresh cut grass undoes the deadline
of the home team. A dandelion appears in the outfield.
The loss outshines any escape the dream is able to make.