In my dream the bits of flag stay inside the jar. I’m not any older.

In my dream the air ripples and she has figured out how to smile and get the party together.

In my dream she wants to cut it down to sixteen again across her chest.

In my dream it’s frayed and revolving.

In my dream we mold the clay and dip the bottles matching the stripes to specific DNA over and over. The actress is blankly modest but she has stolen the work of a local artist and thus the right to their studio. By the end I’ve forgotten how the process works and am losing my place in line.

In my dream the Christmas retail displays at Lincoln Center lead me to a  wan teenage architecture student trying to insinuate themselves into a musical about Japan.

In my dream the old notebooks suggest new plans.

In my dream the hunt for an mc goes on across multiple emails while I pack and try to get a flight back from Chicago later in the day. The food is good, but a crafty woman swipes the cards from my wallet in the pre-dawn street while staring me in the face.

In my dream we are moving down the street in flashing yellowed sunlight. Her voice, blunt with cynicism, keeps commenting until we are done.

In my dream: musical numbers, irate fellow artists, a retirement party.