John-Ward Leighton

WRAPPED IN DREAMS

I’ve just woke up
but I’m still wrapped in dreams.
I’ve read my mail and surfed the net
but still don’t know what it means.

I said, “Hi,” to a friend
and touched his sleeve
but he was in a hurry
and had to leave.

The chatter and the sound track
have passed me by
and I sit and wonder,
“Where do dreams go when you die”?

My back itches where you can’t scratch
so I rub my back on a post like a bear
to rolling eyes, smirks and whispers
that I would do that there.

The day is part rain
and part sunny
and I seem to have amused the people
whose mothers’ dressed them funny.

They seem to pick their clothes
from the bottom of the Sally Ann bin.
They all want to look like hos and home boys
but that hardly is a sin.

A couple give each other a quick smooch
in the street.
Something to last them through the day
until they again can meet.

The lovers kiss good bye
one last quick connection
one last display of affection
in case one of them should die.

A sweet thing fusses with her hair
oblivious to the fact that I am there,
and now she steps away
and gets her first coffee of the day.

Miles on the sound track, “Bye Bye Blackbird”
but its hardly even heard
because the princess is in, perfectly dressed,
stepping from a fashion show the rest of us have missed.

The rush is over at least for now, my, where do the hours go?
My coffee cup is empty whatever that means.
The sun is out, the day is bright, but my head is still foggy and

wrapped in dreams.