Where do daydreams
go when they retire?
Do they nap upon my feet
waiting until I stumble over them
disguised as a russian spy,
a princess bride,
a heroine of yesterday?

Ageless and timeless
the dreams do not wither
but as of yet remain
chubby-cheeked and cheerful.

Whereas I – jaded and thin and tired –
upon the eve of the end of a dream
find that the accomplishment
is like a magic hat
whereas I –
pulling and pulling and pulling –
get a thousand candy-colored handkerchiefs
that are not real.

Thus, getting older is:
the reinterpretation of dreams;
but, perhaps – just, maybe,
the ideals upon which
the dreams are set –
Remain.