the woman in the dream

I’m in a hurry.

It's the top of the 5th

knotted at four.

I need eggs and milk,

and approaching the register

our eyes connect as if wired between

both ends of an electrical extension.

I slow the pace down to a cowpoke’s mosey.

…oh, and bread.

three people at the register become six

as others close in with their goods.

I don’t know what the dream would’ve amounted to.

I woke-up instead.

this was three weeks ago, with time wizzing

by like a tsetse fly late for lunch.

It’s now the bottom of the 7th

with Boston and Chicago knotted at three.

I’m fresh out of Lay’s potato chips,

low on Narragansett lager beer,

and the nasty White Sox just scored another two

in the top of the 8th.

It’s three weeks into the rest of my life,

and except for the score, as fulfilled a life

as any man could hope for, and yet I've got

a recurring urge to know if she’s still dreaming.