He speaks softly
He laughs gently
He tells me stories about what he sees
Every time he closes his eyes.
Blinding lights, pools of blood,
Burning sun on stinging wounds
And he offers to sell me
A little bit of his aspiration.
A who-knows-what, a vagueness
A ripple that could be anything
From a vial on a trolley repurposed from a hospital bed
Which grinds its own organ with its squeaky wheels and creaking legs.
An eerie call for all to hear
That says with without speaking,
“Dreams for sale; dreams for sale.”
Some come in little labeled vials,
Some in tall, narrow bottles
Some come in jars, suspended in fluid,
Some wrapped in swaths of green cloth
And others are do-it-yourself kits
With needles and thread or bones and hair.
They all look enchanting to me
As I lean into his cart.
I thought maybe they would be hopes and visions of the future,
But they all look like mysteries to me, mere possibilities
Nonetheless plentiful, nonetheless alluring
Smart and sharp and shining.
I run my fingers over each one,
Shake them up a little and watch them move
Keep an eye on his lopsided smile.
He praises every glance, every scintillation
Acting like he knows exactly which one I'll choose
From his collection of broken dreams, lost dreams, discarded dreams
And dreams that were never even found, never used,
Until he sold them for a dime to a passerby.
He laughs gently
He tells me stories about what he sees
Every time he closes his eyes.
Blinding lights, pools of blood,
Burning sun on stinging wounds
And he offers to sell me
A little bit of his aspiration.
A who-knows-what, a vagueness
A ripple that could be anything
From a vial on a trolley repurposed from a hospital bed
Which grinds its own organ with its squeaky wheels and creaking legs.
An eerie call for all to hear
That says with without speaking,
“Dreams for sale; dreams for sale.”
Some come in little labeled vials,
Some in tall, narrow bottles
Some come in jars, suspended in fluid,
Some wrapped in swaths of green cloth
And others are do-it-yourself kits
With needles and thread or bones and hair.
They all look enchanting to me
As I lean into his cart.
I thought maybe they would be hopes and visions of the future,
But they all look like mysteries to me, mere possibilities
Nonetheless plentiful, nonetheless alluring
Smart and sharp and shining.
I run my fingers over each one,
Shake them up a little and watch them move
Keep an eye on his lopsided smile.
He praises every glance, every scintillation
Acting like he knows exactly which one I'll choose
From his collection of broken dreams, lost dreams, discarded dreams
And dreams that were never even found, never used,
Until he sold them for a dime to a passerby.
