and the voices in my dreams remained silent
no long ago memories relived
no anecdotes to be shared in tears.
Perhaps it’s part of growing
or perhaps it was the six cans of beer I drank
before stumbling to bed last night
a cold wind pushing the recent warmth away.
It rattled the windows and whistled around the house
as I wrapt the blankets tighter, awaiting sleep,
it crawled through the cracks, bringing freshness
into my cluttered musty soul.
Sleep claimed me slowly as I lived in thoughts,
sleep doesn’t love me anyway,
it laughs at my constant turning and pillow fluffing
my constant slips into darkness and sudden jolts awake.
What would I dream if I could choose
a quiet moment, the dining room table set,
the kitchen awash in the odors of thanksgiving
the television, black and white, a distant murmur.
A feast that is waiting to be eaten
a dream that is waiting to be dreamt
a memory that is waiting to be remembered
a future that is waiting to be lived.