Grey

your life is like an open book,
he said, running a careful eye
over my palm, examining a new
few lines that had appeared
since the last time.

you’ll have it all laid out for you,
clearly etched squares—confines
within which your life
will arrange itself, un-contoured,
in sane, straight lines

i dreamt then of a great big car
waiting outside a quaint café,
and i, looking at my designer watch
in exasperation at the trifle delay,
of being late to the next extravagance.

as i got in, i saw sunlight
filtering through the trees,
leaves, bright, young with hope
of all that was to be.
i dreamt and dreamt some more.

Grey

when i woke, the black and white
squares were fading into a grey
morning, leaving their summer
shades behind. and just where
i had seen that car, with the chauffeur,

was your shadow, playing with
the autumnal light.

what was that dream again?