Desiré

I keep on having a dream. It goes like this: I am running through the cities I have lived in, Compton Street to Mount Royal, to Haight. They lock onto each other so that I rush from one street to the next, perilious in heels. I burst into shops of all sizes, search through them in a hurried daze, and leave. The longer the dream goes on, the more frenzied I become and the less sure I am of where I should be looking. It is not Christmas, everyone else is calm and smiling. The sun is shining even as the day gets old. It is not for a last minute birthday. There is something I need, not a gift. There is a hole beneath my shirt where my ribs stop short. Somewhere, there is my heart sitting on a shelf. I imagine it perfect, moist, the colour of raspberries. A little tag is attached by a thread. My hair keeps getting in my eyes. The cities keep on coming: Queen Street, Montana Avenue, Gentleman's Walk.

I hope that I have enough to pay for it.

And I wake up, and shower, and go to work.