A Tender Dream Poem by Thomas Case

Once there was this woman that
I could talk about writing and
poetry with. We talked
about Emily and Bukowski, and many others.
We were poets in our own right.
We shared tears and laughter, like
a joint among friends.
Once, we sang our daughter to sleep.
It was beautiful and sublime.
But, the brutal dawn destroyed that
glorious night.
She farted a lot, but I fell
in love with her anyway, and her son too.
We even cooked together.
It was magnificent,
although she got a little bossy in
the kitchen. I can still
smell the coriander and garlic and
taste the salt on the back of her neck.
I picked her wild flowers, and
ate well from her garden-
all slippery and divine.
She had these pastel soft blue eyes,
like something out of a Degas painting.
She could be as mean as Humpty Dumpty-
all cracked and broken-
yoke flowing everywhere.
And I couldn't fix her.
And I certainly couldn't put myself
back together again.
And then one autumn, I turned around,
and she was gone. A wall went up.
Occasionally I could see her through the
holes in the bricks. But I knew that I would
never touch her again;
hold her, kiss her.
It made me feel sad and lonely.
But I keep her real close in my heart.
And some days that gets me by. And other times,
it's like she was never there at all-
just a tender dream.
I want to escape the memory of her;
overdose on artichokes and avocados,
drowned in a sea of Bloody Marys,
or run away to far off lands,
like Montana or Idaho. But, I'm afraid I'd
still see her there,
in the Snake River or the wide open sky.