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I was an ergonomically
sophisticated rocking chair –
you were a writing table
with a built-in two-bulbed light.

I dreamed we dreamed we both
became the furniture in someone’s
small apartment late last night.

I rocked, and you lit up your spine
as we both waited for someone
to take a load off on my lap,
contrive a sonnet on your flat
and patient back, but no one came.

Persisting in our strange
intractable positions
we’d begun to run the risk
of turning permanently lame.

And then we heard a key
turn in a lock, followed by
a faint hiccup. Then we woke up.

.