I dreamt I was with a friend who fed me coleslaw from
his own plate, with his own fork, and said he didn’t much care
for the poems of a fellow poet; I was uncertain if I liked
one particular poem in two-line stanzas and iambic
pentameter, but he gave the thumbs down. I was relieved,
I needed to know what to think. Later he was in the yard
painting over the intricate pattern on a lime-green retro
metal lawn chair, a plain peach color, and I was wearing
long pants in mid-summer, because I had missed the 50th
celebration due to a broken ankle, which was a lie, and now
he might see, yet he seemed oblivious, and I was looking
for somewhere in the grand old hotel to spend the night,
the room I had been assigned had a large grave dug
out of the middle of the bed, leaving little room to sleep.
And he said nothing and didn’t invite me to share his bed.

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