Under
the warm
trickle of soothing water,
I stand in the old
and ancient shower
thinking about sleep patterns
within the vastness of concrete
in this downtown loft
beneath 14 foot ceilings.
I can easily recall
the maddening effort of dreams,
the same dreams I've had
over and over,
and
perhaps similar dreams
of the other artists
who have lived here before me,
who have also dreamt in color
and about color
just like me.
.
last night
I dreamt about
the color green...
the elegant green of jade
and
the sparkling green of emeralds,
the lovely
yet filthy green of paper money,
as well as all the greens of nature,
trees-lawns-shrubs
and even garden hoses.
also
the green mold
found on old bread and cheese,
and
the green of algae
prospering along the moist edges
of this shower.
.
the
slow-moving drain,
stopped-up and clogged
no doubt from the hair
of a hundred different artists
who dwelled in this drafty place
over so many years,
people
who found both love and hatred,
people very much like me I suppose
who've gone the distance
twice over
only to find doubt with both.
.
yet
like me,
rising with great hope
each and every day
much like cold dust
blasted by an anxious breath,
only scattered farther
by the ambiguity of dreams.
.
reaching
for a towel
to dry myself off,
I think about the previous tenants,
so curious of the other artists
and
where they are today.
as far as I know,
none of them ever became famous
or even important
or that accomplished,
though
some I've heard
have gone crazy
and there have been more
than a few who have since died,
and
the entire matter
quickly adds up to possibly nothing more
than probably having
so many dreams
.
in color.
.
.
©2016 Miles Ciletti