In the dream, I am an elephant
three feet firmly planted
on the floor beneath me,
a see-through glass tabletop
balanced in delicate see-saw
along my spine as I try to breathe.
Around the table above,
my familiars in a scene
from so long ago I barely remember.
But I do — you know what they say.
The four of them do not speak,
and have not made eye contact for years.
We each pick our poison —
passion, penchant, proclivity —
set out on plates before us,
as the illusion teeters back and forth.
If I put my foot down,
won’t the whole thing shatter?
©2015, Jen Payne, #5 National Poetry Month
Digital Collage by Jen Payne.