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
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
and I won’t remember whether his eyes
were blue or brown.
by Cher Bibler