Hovering on the Edge of a Dream

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You feel rocks in your throat
listening to soul music during long commutes
under gorgeously grey skies
of early morning and evening and hidden griefs
stalled only by the idle banter of radio jockeys about one night stands
and the quality of brand name mattresses.

A stray wanderer,
your mind travels to those lazy afternoons
in mediocre hotel rooms
with scratchy sheets and unappetizing
room service menus,
strong smelling soaps
in cheaply made cardboard boxes,
none of which mattered
because poetry flowed between both of you
and you dreamed
over fast food burgers and curly fries,
of having enough one day
to escape those days
but maybe those days were the escape.

You will wake up one day
and years will have passed you by like an indifferent bus
driving into the mist of a winter morning,
leaving you shivering at a strange bus stop,
cold and wet and short of breath
from running towards a fate slipping through your fingers
quicksand like.

Weren’t you just in a coffeehouse
having your second six-shot-raspberry-mocha,
writing poems about a city you barely remembered
aside from its romantic landmarks –
a dying river, a Mughal fort with a bloody history?
But in the way of dreams
there were rocks in your throat,
and no one heard a sound.