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One Poem 

David Wojciechowski

I Dream of Me

I wake up and I understand:    it’s not quite day.
On the back porch I eat a bowl of cereal
and it’s delicious. I remember in that movie
the kids were so tiny they were in a bowl of cereal,
and I’d like to give that a try, too.
Imagine a spoon that could contain all of me.
I go back inside and wrap myself in day clothes.
The moon has stars, but what does the sun have?
Doesn’t it feel lonely?     I went to an art exhibit
that was an empty room except for a box in the center
made out of pine, but not the kind you’re imagining,
more of a shoebox with the claim that it was enchanted,
if you put your favorite childhood possession inside
and close the lid, the artist strikes the box on its top
and the possession comes to life,    but it won’t remember you.
That’s the catch. You can teach something to go to the wilderness,
but then you have to teach it to leave you behind.