I have this dream where I hand
a beautiful woman one of my poems
and she begins to undress on the spot.
We're in a coffee shop and I plead with her,
"Please, not here."
But she answers with,
"You showed me the poem here didn't you."
She has a point.
So I begin undressing as well.
The people at the other tables
don't seem to notice.
Four co-eds are like discussing
like everything that like
happened to them today.
A young guy,
in a tattered jacket,
and a scarf swirling around his throat,
is head down in a Spanish translation
of "Crime And Punishment."
Two gallery owners
blame it all on Matisse.
Three engineering students share formulas.
Two aging gays hold hands.
So we make love on the table
amid the muffin crumbs and Java stains
and then, when we're done,
we put our clothes back on,
and I ask her,
"Can I get you anything?"
She says, "Yes, do you have a poem
where the woman doesn't fake her orgasm
and the guy means everything he says to her."
I tell her,
"A poem, no.
A dream, yes."