The Possible Dream


[Portrait of Andre Salmon, Moise Kisling, 1912]

The Possible Dream

It’s 6:30pm. Time

to go home.

You lean forward and rise up

from your hygienic desk.

Retreating from your appearance.

Having held it well.

You march for the final passage.

You approach glass doors

then pull.

You’re out

and it ceases–clack of typewriters

Jangling salesmen. Appropriate smoke.

Through the landscaped plaza

shimmering in subtle hues

Your legs answer with nylon slide

and the rhythm of high heels.

Calm. Quietude.

No bellowing weeds. No crackling roots.

No trumpeting sun. No blooming moon.

Only pollen-free air and your syncopation,

As you enter the opulent lobby,

You nod to the concierge

Who approves your gray decoration.

You cross the lobby and enter

a high-speed elevator.

In thirty-five seconds,

you will have transcended as many floors.

You step out, tread across plush carpet

open your door and enter.

You close your door.

Now to go empty

your blazer. Resign it to the back

of a Puritanical chair. Unzip

your straight skirt. Arrange it

for tomorrow.

Unhook you bra.  Peel it

from you breasts. Disengage

garters from stockings.

Unroll their color. You pores cheer

open to thin walls

and back.

It’s 6:40pm.

You are naked.


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