The Dream's the Thing

The Dream had been

Of seeing Europe again –

      This time with you.

Of seeing New York often.

Of seeing sadness rarely.

Of date-night dancing

While others gazed on.

Long weekends of reading

      Or writing,

The pages filled with poetry.

Instead,

I see rush-hour traffic

      With my son.

I see Wal-Mart frequently

And the spa rarely.

I see my share of sadness

      And joy.

Who has time to dance?

      Or the energy?

And I would give almost anything

For a long weekend

To fill pages with poetry.

The play means nothing.

The Dream’s the thing.