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A dream I held unto in my waking


We are in a restaurant
the waiter tells us before we order
what we would like-

We adore it all, he smiles
He touches your forehead with a fingertip
smiles broadly, and proclaims you an artist
"You paint, perhaps you make things, you write stories."

He then turns, places a firm hand on my shoulder and peers into my eyes
"Oh, a dreamer- sad for you to always be not quite there"
Then, looks back at you -with half a smile

"But, 'is ok, because he adores you, and that he does not fail at-- that is his completed masterpiece."
He smiles at this statement;
this pronouncement.

He returned with not a bill- but a stack of bills,
one for each word we had spoken, as if he owed us for the privilege.


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