In all the pictures I am sleeping:
dozing on a rock, snoring by a candle.
She, of course, got to shake
hands with the Angel.

I woke with the kind of boner
I haven’t had in decades
and expected a larger life,
less falling asleep on the job.

I’ve dreamt each big decision:
the move down south to Egypt,
the sidey-ways turn to Galilee.

The boy dreams too. Just
to look at him, though,
I can see I don’t feature in his.

What use are dreams really
if you’re the one asleep in them?