Dream

The Dream Corridor dies Mondays.
I enter the dream corridor as a precious few travelers do
A short reprieve from Concrete Circus City
The quiet touch of beautiful human creativity, both sides
And an encaseing green canopy, that smells of the season
Not today
Human filth receptacles
Scattered and abandoned and oozing lazy
Bits here and there left for someone else who never comes
Or for the rain that has not been seen in days
Or weeks
The stench of Ancient Venice
London
Or Paris
Dripping across the path in front of me
The Dream Corridor dies Mondays.