the recurring dream

i keep having this recurring dream. i’m casually hanging out in a local coffee shop. i’m in my favorite overstuffed chair in a corner of the establishment. sunlight floods the window to my left cascading over my shoulder. as i stare out the window over my reading glasses hanging precariously on the tip of my nose, i look up from reading a literary magazine. after carefully reviewing all their submission guidelines, i consider submitting a couple of my poems. the prospect of being published maintains the garden of my optimism. after all, they consider every piece they receive. So as I turn to my big black binder, bursting with the poetry pieces I’ve written over the past 8 to 10 years, I whisper to myself, “send them your best work, Diane”. ten I realize that I have no idea what my best work is. nor do i have any way of finding out.Then the alarm clock goes off and I realize its time to get up.

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