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Poetry Feature
Dream
I woke from a dream that ended with me or Bob Dylan physically embracing a huge crowd of people below a staircase in a museum in Budapest or some old, historical, ornate palace somewhere on the European continent, and me or Bob had been chased into the only exit, the entry way, and this crowd of people, who looked like old friends and who were dressed in black trousers and white shirts with black suspenders, blocked our way, were trying to hold me or Bob back, trying to prevent us from escaping, and they were all extending house keys toward me or Bob, the keys jagged edges threatening me or Bob like brutal, ragged knives, and this crowd implored me or Bob, “Don’t break our hearts.” And I, or was it Bob, answered, “All hearts get broken in the end.”
John Twomey
Posted at September 21, 2007 12:03 AM