Any Other Street

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

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.