The Theory ......

The Theory that Dreams Serve Poetry

On the train to yet another book launch

The driver makes an announcement

There will be a delay

the wrong kind of poetry is running things

People don’t panic

People don’t pull emergency cords

People are as apathetic as ever

Poetry is a series of delays before

Arriving at meaning.

People pull out magazines, novels, newspapers

All the tumble of words in the lexicon.

I don’t see any books of poetry.

I imagine the men in yellow and orange flap jackets

Attempting to get the right poetry into place

It will take forever or a bit longer.

I decide to sleep as I have made my mind up

That none of this is a dream.

Miraculously on time the train pulls into Central Station

A lame pigeon watches my arrival, winks

As if it knows a secret that I don’t.

There is an elegant half-Armenian woman

Waiting under the grandiose façade

that is either a tomb or an entrance,

she holds a sign which says,

waiting for the right poetry

I keep my head low, walk straight past

No need to get involved.

When the train really does arrive it is late

And no pigeons do wink

There isn’t any sign of a woman or her sign

All is back to normal

Banality has been restored

But the wrong kind of poetry

Is still running things

That much of this

Is still true.