janice j. cunningham

I dreamed last night

that you and I

were guests

at a fancy hotel,  where

a cup of cafe au lait

cost nine dollars and

the 800-thread count sheets,

like fallen moths’ wings.


How impressed each morning

was I,

with the thoughtful and charming way you had

arranged room service

with the finest china and Reed and Barton silver

and coffee exactly the way

I like it.

Perfect.     Does this mean

you love me?

Funny, even in my dreams

I was let down,

heartbroken, even —

yet, nevertheless, not surprised

when the final bill

arrived in a leather case

on a silver tray  and


had charged it all


my credit card.


*note: PTG: FELICITY, 1997. oil on board, 20×20.

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