Summoned again from Central Casting you
laugh in the studio commissary as
we traject our waking hours.
Eating; talking. Still
wearing last night’s costumes.
You get the joke: The play’s the thing.
Wardrobe calls, make-up;
the lines you speak, or not.
Cameo or character;
a star turn.
A love scene, or hate.
Murder, or redemption,
or both.
Cue tears. Cue laughter.
Invert.
Plot does not constrain you.
Special effects,
dizzying; disorienting:
Hitchcock zooms.
Time collapsing, or expanding.
Possibility does not constrain you.
You’ll do it all again tonight.
Camera ready.
Roll sound.
Action.
We think we dream you: smoke
of our extinguished bodies; mirrors
of our restless minds.
But you laugh in the commissary, laugh
and look our way with what
might be a wink that says
think again, that says
you know nothing, that says
cross-fade, that says
We dream you in our sleep.
Meditatio Ephemera 
Yes. We think we dream … but the dream people, summoned from Central Casting, are amused by us … smoke … and mirrors … Beautiful, Rafiki
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Thank you, my friend!
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