"Dream" mate, a giddy sound,
not strong Like "rent",
"feeding a wife",
"satisfying a man".
But could a dream sent up
through onion fumes
Its white and violet,
fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday's garbage ripening
in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down
these rooms,
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder.
But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of
the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water,
hope to get in it.
Written by Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
<----> SEND THIS POEM TO A FRIEND! <---->