“I dream of a cranberry couch,” she said to her husband
as she ran her wrinkled hand across the tattered sofa.
The coffee perked, filtering through last night’s dream.
In her dream she had been a young man,
a testosterone-charged gigolo, a contestant in a reality show
sailing a royal vessel across miles of aqua-blue heaven.
Waking had been a disappointment, quiet
stretching across the hours. Putting the dream into words
might have ruined their day; or worse, tainted its memory.
So she said the first beautiful words that rolled off her tongue
grounded her to yesterday, to domestic pleasures.
She stirred the coffee and gazed at her husband with Sunday lust.