Last night I dreamt
You were peddling books
In front of the art museum.
Used books- although
In my estimation a book
Can never be referred to
As being used;
There are always unexpected nuances
To discover between its covers,
So how can a book be used?
After all, a book is not a woman,
Displayed, peddled, used, used up.
Very courteous, you were standing
Behind a makeshift stall
Explaining to curious passersby
Of art books, poetry books, psychology
No longer in vogue
Things of the past, things to be rid of,
No current value to you, their owner.
You had acquired new spectacles
Gold rimmed and stylish
To fit your new outlook,
Your new views
And you said to me
“Look, I am flying,” you said.
You flew over
The terra cotta roofs
Leaping from rooftop to rooftop
Agile, like a panther.
I was taking you in, every inch of you
My feet were rooted on the pavement
There you were, on top of the world
Too adroit to ever fall,
Or so you thought.