(poor girl's lament in a time of economic recession)

i've felt your lips in my dreams,
rested my head in the curve of your neck,
moved through the stages of talking
and trust
and fingertips on your shoulder
and my hand beside your face

real life is stagnant
a glass tunnel out of which
i watch the world
and you
i cannot be heard
can barely be seen
and i staunchly ignore your existance

you are mine only in dreams
we are lovers, friends,
castaways on deserted roads,
where i know,
have an unconscious feeling,
that in waking our eyes rarely meet
and i am far from smiling with you
or feeling your lips against mine

i am too weak for this world of boxes and crates
too sensitive for your barrel women with skin like burnt pork
with voices like toads screaming for thicker mud in a downpour
too young and scared to fend off those who were raised
in smokey rooms with broken-bottle floors,
on cold park grass, wondering about cigarettes and knives
and the mating habits of birds

where is my man with a title and inheritance
to pay for my home, my food,
my paper
an old philanthropist to leave me a house
to leave me alone
to write my poems