Domestic idealism is a funny thing.
Sometimes, when I’m laying down
at three in the morning, watching a movie
instead of sleeping, or writing, or reading,
or, if I had passion, typing up and deleting
a message to some girl over and over again,
I think about who I’d like to be.
In fifteen years, wearing bifocals,
sitting cross-legged on a lounge chair
with herbal tea, and maybe whiskey,
am I holding someone in my arms?
Do I have a cat?
Is that someone an adult, or a little me?
I’d really like to take my son
or daughter to the Basketball Hall of fame one day.
I’d like to tell them about who
I looked up to
when I was their age.