the dreams in your pocket

the end of summer

One can tell from the way the heat lays across the land 

like a blanket you can't kick off 

that time is winding down 

you wear time like clothing 

all is quiet    you don't reach for a book 

and you don't walk to the door 

you don't call for a friend 

there are dust particles floating in the light from the window 

and you watch those   you'll die one day 

and until that happens other people will die 

some you love    some you don't 

part of the room is sunlight and part is in shadow 

you become aware of your breath and you stand 

but you don't have any place to go 

or anything to do 

james lee jobe

"Every morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most."

Buddha 

and that day the pancakes will be perfect  

a day will come when you sing arias like Maria Callas 

perfectly    and the adoring audience will toss roses 

at your pedicured feet    you will pick up just one rose 

kiss it and toss it back as if you did this every day 

in one pocket is a list of the dreams you still hold dear 

and in another pocket is the list of things you need 

to pick up from the store    you see    nothing is forgotten 

exiting the concert hall    a driver in a crisp black suit 

will hold the limousine door for you and you will say 

"to the grocer and then home"    the driver ease into traffic 

as overhead the sun is suddenly free of the clouds 

and a light like white gold shines down on your life 

and into your body    filling you with the warmth of the universe 

it is then that you will reach into the pocket for your dreams 

james lee jobe

“One may prefer spring and summer to autumn and winter, but preference is hardly to the point. The earth turns, and we live in the grain of nature, turning with it.”

Robert Hass

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jlj