This time, I'm talking to the publisher of my book. He's sitting on the floor surrounded by the leaves of poems. No, he says, holding a poem up to me. You are not allowed to write poems like this one EVER again. NEVER. But, yes, there are six real poems here.
In my waking life, I do have a manuscript, but not a publisher. But I'm looking for one. I believe there are more than six real poems.
I am also dreaming of waitressing again. I wake tired from other people's demands on my time. From having to smile, to wait for the pittance that the people in my dreams tip.