The good-looking Texas poet married me
despite his having a pretty wife already.
(I wasn’t already married in this dream.)
I don’t know why. It wasn’t a Mormon thing.
We threw a fantastic party. Everyone danced
and waved us down the road when it was time
for honeymooning. The sun set on the sand
and the sagebrush turned orangey-pink. I started to cry
because I knew in the dream that it was just a dream.
The beer that I’d declared the very best beer
I ever had in my life—it wasn’t real.
And if that craggy-faced blond-haired king of poetry
decided he needed another wife, it would be
some sweet young poetry princess. It wouldn’t be me.
marniere 