Any Other Street
would be made of asphalt, black pitch
pillowing in the August heat. But this street
is woven with bones and ash and anything else
leftover when a dream dies. It’s the kind
of street you try to avoid when mapping
out directions. Once, for a party, I
entered a destination, and no matter
how many alternate routes I tried, this
street kept coming up. So all right,
I thought, I have a dream or two
I don’t mind killing. I’ll just dress
in them that day. But how was I to know
that life dreams are like night dreams,
and you don’t get to choose. So, even
though I was willing to give up winning
the lottery or having my own reality show,
this street wouldn’t be interested. It would
want that secret dream I had tucked away
down in my shoes. That dream of having
one simple day after another. It’s not much
of a dream, but it’s the one I really want.
A quiet sleep followed by not much of a morning.
Coffee going down to reliable cold. And I wanted
to keep that dream so much, I thought about turning
back. Who needs another party after all? But,
before I could turn around, that hidden dream,
maybe curious, maybe up for a challenge,
started to itch my feet, made me keep on
walking, maybe just to see how far
this street would really go.
–Francine Witte
Poetry