Nothing is more boring than
Other people’s dreams
My own are dreary enough
But at least they’re familiar
And I probably won’t remember them anyway
In an hour
But when some person narrates a plotless nightmare
Interminably
While I listen politely and try to look interested and
Help analyze and
Dissect
Each surreal image
I draw the line.
And worse, when said dreamer writes down every dream
In endless notebooks
Kept on the bedside table along with a sharpened pencil
In order to preserve
Each night’s saga
And hands the pages to me and asks
Me to read
And comment.
Hmmm I say
Perhaps you should publish.
This stuff is too good to waste
On me.