Imagining my cinema
long after I've begun to sleep,
still clutching tickets sold and bought,
I am the usher nudging me,
reminding me to stay awake,
the moviegoers taking seats,
projectionist who loads the reel
and sets the picture into motion.

As opening credits start to roll,
my name's appearing everywhere:
producers and director, cast,
photographers and editors,
the screenwriters and prop makers,
the decorators, grips, composers,
the make-up and the Foley artists.
And soon I find I'm all the stars.

I'm heroes, extras, adversaries,
cameos that steals scenes.
I speak these lines convincingly,
aware, at last, how this could end,
now thinking I should change the plot,
in charge as someone I was not,
remake this film as I'd prefer:
more memorable, much less a blur

when visions end and I will rise
and, stretching, yawn, and rub my eyes,
recalling some of what I dreamt
and wonder what it must have meant.