I dreamt that on the day I was to die
I was in South America,
passing a new subway kiosk,
where an agent of the government,
known to rule by fear and terror,
but trying to attract tourists
claimed patrons could get a trolley
all the way to New York City.

I strode by bravely, wearing a new white hat
but carrying its brim. I stopped
at an expensive and sinister café
and stood in line for chocolate
and Don Pedro brandy
but in the end did not buy.

On the sundrenched steps of the bookstore
next door, I read the house copy of Lorca.
The steps were crowded with men.
I was laughing as I read.
An old man, the owner, sat next to me.
Don't I know you? he asked.
I don't think so, I said. I was only here
a few times, many years ago when I was young
and thought I was a poet.
Were you? he asked.
No, I said. I was just a boy
undone by words.

6/25/03