Gregory Peck, Unwilling

Napping just now, I dreamed
of the young Gregory Peck:
saw him sitting, holding a pencil,

at which he wasn’t looking;
instead he was gazing, stiffly, into
a middle distance, head shot through

with colored waves and darts and lines,
not as if he were wondering what
to write or draw or even think: more

as if he had just realized that someone
had caught him in a dream that
wasn’t his and apparently expected

him to do something. Clearly
he wasn’t going to. I guess I was
dreaming of writing a poem, too.

.