THIS IS HOW WE DREAM
Two beers into Saturday morning, two guys,
heads on the metal pillows of a truck bed –
gazing at stars too far from town to drive to,
REMs deep in our brains, every 90 minutes
clicking on how it might taste to French kiss
a day job with the big bucks in the city.
We’d be damned if we’ll give up a third
of our lives to nothingness as do old men
in the square who say they do not dream.
We say they do not remember. But not us.
Never do we not exist. Every 90 minutes,
we wonder what it would be like to do
something other than lie here on cold steel –
do it with body painted babes torn from
the new magazine, hitchhiking on the back
of some star to a new town, or to the city.