The stages for my dreams are
sometimes unfamiliar, but mostly
places that I know. A flood plain
by an old bike path, a bus route I used to take,
a bus depot I used to frequent, my grandma’s
house, my uncle’s house, a grocery store
or two. Because apparently my dreams are humdrum.
They want nothing more in sleep than they do in life;
to go shopping and deciding which sweet
treat to get and working out the best
sale price in the produce aisle.
Missing busses,
always missing busses every damn time.
Missing busses, missing stops, and transferring to
the wrong train.
My favorite dreams are the ones where I go running.
I run
to a place that is familiar
in dream state,
but when I awake I’m unsure of exactly where it is,
part of the path by my old Niagara house
and part of the path my my old school
and always by a dead end and sometimes I wonder
if the places I dream are just the ghosts
of the places they once were. As if the earth has muscle memory and that
is what it wants me to see while I’m dreaming.
So I continue deciding, searching, and deciding in my dreams
as if there’s any hope for me doing those things in my awake life.
That is if that is not a dream as well.