Tonight's Poet Corner: My Dreams
My Dreams by Belinda Roddie My dreams are written by a six-year-old. Her stream of consciousness binds me like a book with crayon scribbled across its spine. She builds a world with corners, but then the edges are blurred by the stub of a pencil's eraser, and I can't tell if she will keep me between the lines or lead me entirely off the page. We've greeted a pink centaur on a field of green, and its coat matches the sunset above our heads. We've wandered through a desert twice by now, and the rocks there have been pretty neat. We've tried to buy breakfast from the grocery store, and when they don't have what we want, we maneuver to the doughnut store, but despite the deep fried goodness, they don't have what we want, either, so why bother with it? It's been fun to navigate the inane parts with the fantasies, all drawn on an axis in my mind. I've always thought of the world in numbers and calculations, in equations and solutions