Whatever Doesn’t Happen

“…but the longer I lived the more I understood
that there were really no lies. Whatever doesn’t
really happen is dreamed at night.”
Isaac Bashevis Singer, “Gimpel the Fool”

Now that the morons have won,
so important to dream. Clutching
our wondrous nights, we see
fishing boats pulled onto shore,
green hulls and blue, with their
colorful names:
Sancho Panza, Blue Angel,
or Destroyer of Worlds.
Sky looms like no sky, reddish
mass of gathering cloud rubbing
over skeptical sea. In the wells
it is fish we smell. Together we work
the lines, hands raw in blinding wind.

Steve Klepetar

If you've any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.