Dreams

It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't **** me.It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.I drip ashes on them.There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know
any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.