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.