Dreamer

I once knew a man who never slept.
Lived next door to him for a long, long time
In The Old Neighborhood,
And all the while he didn’t sleep once,
Not even a wink.
Wanted to of course, tried, just couldn’t.
Had the condition since birth, he said.
He was an efficient guy,
With so much extra time on his hands.
Gave him a job
And he finished it—no exceptions.

He helped me
Through more than a few rough spots.
A good friend of mine, Wide-Eye Jim.
We spent many a night conversing
In the armchairs
By his massive fireplace
Just talking and drinking.
He enjoyed the company I think,
For his wife passed and he had no kids.

He was a true wise-man,
Maybe a prophet even.
Gave great advice,
Best I ever heard.

I always wore shoes in his house
So I wouldn’t have splinters.
You see, he passed the hours
Carving little wood trinkets and figures.
My study is filled with them now.
He said they were his dreams
Because he never had the chance for
A real dream to come in the night,
Like most dreams do.
So, he made them himself.

It was real nice of him to give me his dreams,
For dreams are something I hold
Most dear.
Behind each carving,
There was a story
And he told me quite a few of them.

He said that his strongest dream though,
His strongest story,
Was to have a real dream
That comes when eyes are closed
And heads are resting on pillows
A drool trickles from mouths.
He assured me that one night,
His dream would come
And he would be content.

On a normal Saturday evening
I went over to his house for a chat.
Crossed the yard and
Walked right into the living room
To find him resting back in an armchair,
Peaceful, eyes shut tight, carving in hand.
And I thought,
Well, Old Wide-Eye is finally having his dream,
The good, long dream—
That he deserves.





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