on the bus, from work, I dreamt I went back to cooking again, breaking out free finally from my ignominious two year take out dependence.
feting myself, I origamied my take out menus to lissome swans, hanged them over my boiling pots. the warm air, droplet by humid droplet, impregnated the lithe birds, leaving them corpulent and contented.
in my dream, mama suddenly invaded my kitchen. without being asked to, she pelted my heavily soy sauced roast pork with more rock salt. then, wiping her now sweating armpits with her sauce soggied hemline, she admonished me, her voice way out of sync with her lips, to measure out my life in coffee spoons.
the overstuffed backpack of a man wearing an army camouflage jacket grazed my shoulder and woke me out of my fantasy kitchen. as the bus lumbered through the morning crush, I labored to remember who actually said what my mother told me in my dream.
t.s. eliot's name only came to me the moment I started navigating through the frozen snow puddles from the bus stop toward my building. prufrock, yes, peach loving prufrock. the name, I mumbled to myself repeatedly, was like a perky sorbet, clearing up my mind after some serious entrée.
I stopped by the diner and ordered out a sesame bagel with cream cheese and jelly and a tall cup of colombian coffee, no milk, only two sugars. then without warning, the cash counter lady, certifiably crabby, just slayed me when she flashed a smile as she handed me my change.
as I walked on home, I clutched my take out breakfast bag against my chest, the warmth of the coffee and the toasted bagel washed over me. envying the doves by the curbside bathing under the temperamental winter sun, I just let go and basked under the glow, the lambent flush from a smile hard to anticipate even in a dream.