Saturday, September 19, 2009
Cut-rate
Never discard a dream.
It will not explode
when deferred, like an errant missile.
I bought the cut-rate bacon; it is nearly as good.
Put it in the oven for twenty minutes, but the fat wouldn't render.
Cooked it slow in a skillet, until it seemed right.
Pulled the strips of meat from the grease and chewed them,
wishing they were crunchy.
I leave old dreams in the freezer now.
They don't spoil, but the color changes.
I open the door, sometimes,
just to look at them.
Labels: poem
