Day 944, January 12, 2023

A Bolero Fantasy


I still fantasize about the band embarking on a world tour.
After the holidays, 
all the Christmas tree lights go on sale, 
and band practice rooms are so equipped all across our land.
When heroes die 
there is a requisite period of private mourning 
even though you never met the man. 
To have listened was enough.

Who knows what people are like behind closed doors, 
riding in the back of a taxi, 
sitting in an airport lavatory. 
What kind of man talks on the phone while at the urinal?
Who strikes up a conversation with the driver?
Who cries themselves to bed at night with imaginary tears?
On the fourth night of split pea soup, 
do you continue on?

I dream with my eyes open, 
while eating cinnamon raisin bread, 
or waiting for an email to digest, 
or watching the sugar on a sweet potato caramelize.
If animals remember where they stored last year’s nuts, 
perhaps they also remember a particularly warm summer day 
when the breeze was just right 
and the clouds looked like they were shaped by hands.
We might be big in Japan, 
if they only knew what they were missing.



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