Because my needs
are so painfully modest,
they leave my dreams
awkward and bewildered.
I pay the rent on time.
The grocery bill does not break me.
“Comformarse” –
that should be the
embroidered sampler
pinned against my wall.
“Make do,” as
my neighbor Sylvia says.
But how do dreams make do?
On the job, I forget
what other jobs I could do.
My friends are just close enough
to leave no way in for others.
My time to myself
doesn’t stretch much beyond sleep.
I could have it a lot worse.
But since when
is that something to look forward to?