It’s August, the neighbor is

mowing his lawn.

I have gotten out a few old dreams,

they fit in a teacup.

They shrink with age,

they shrivel and pieces fall off and blow away.

Old dreams don’t look like much,

hard to believe they were so precious once,

that we kept them safe

that we tried to keep them alive long

after we should have stopped.

Old lovers and fantasies

and novels I was going to write.

I have a new lover, he is

so respectable,

a steady job.

He drives a quiet grey car.

Someday I’ll be tired of him

I’m not nice, and his cautiousness angers me.

Someday, too, he will fit in a

teacup, be nothing but a

withered memory,

and I won’t remember whether his eyes

were blue or brown.

by Cher Bibler