My recent hang up on utility has supplanted any interest I’ve had in the good. It’s been so long since the opposition hounded you, “What’s a million? What’s a million?” Clarence. The amateur partisans with their seasonal pragmatism actually believe your big picture, cost-benefit Karma. What are the poems only I read (and reread) but war wails? I want to offer you a poem with the facts checked.
I fear it’s too late, Clarence. Anyone I’ve met has had to make some sense of me. I know my dreams are filled with familiars, but G.D., C.D. Howe, tell me from your cosmic station how’ve I done in my former lovers’ dreams?
In Tamara’s do I dig her for answers? In Ang’s do I stand astride the exit? In Mary Woolworth’s am I man or still thirteen? In Nat’s have we kissed?
Ah, how I impress myself, my fantasies’ announced, but believe me this is better. Since I’ve told my wife, she’s told me twice about her dreams about me. In the second some former roommate harangued her, “You’re not good enough for him! He deserves better!” but Clarence, between the audience and us, we know a dreamt word’s as worthless as a dreamt dollar.
(Editor’s note: poet Jeff Blackman is a federal employee)
