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.
Perfect.
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
you
had charged it all
on
my credit card.
Perfect.
*note: PTG: FELICITY, 1997. oil on board, 20×20.
janice j. cunningham 