THE DREAMER OF DREAMS

A writer and a poet
Were walking down the street
Arm in arm, locked in step
To the place where they did meet

A quiet little coffee shop
Just around the corner
Having lively discussions
Until spoke up the former:

“I am a writer, and you are a poet,
Our passion is equal, it seems
But I have been wondering for quite some time now –
Who is the Dreamer of Dreams?

“For I can put forth a story
That takes my readers away
To lands untrod, to lives unlived
While poetry can be so cliché.”

The poet now stopped in his tracks
Gave a great snort and a hack
“Excuse me, good sir, What nonsense is this?
I suggest you take it all back.

“For I am the Dreamer of Dreams
I create art with my words
Enliven the senses, nourish the soul
What you’ve just said is absurd.”

“No need to get testy,” the writer retorted
As they entered the small coffee shop
They strode to the counter where stood the barista
Then both went to order, and stopped.

“You first,” said the writer, “No you,” said the poet
While the barista held on to her smile
“If you insist,” said the writer while under his breath
The poet warned, “This may take a while.”

“I’ll take a double espresso, large, with oat milk
No wait, make that a small
Or perhaps what I want is a
Macchiato – is that the one with caramel?

“You know what? Just give me both
Throw in some biscottis, as well
Oh and one of those muffins and a mini souffle
One of everything, what the hell?”

As the barista hurried to gather the order
The poet rolled his eyes and then sighed,
“That’s the problem with writers, you loquacious folks
You’re greedy and cannot decide

“Which things in life are important
And which ones to leave behind
Whether it’s food, or it’s drink, or it’s nouns, or it’s verbs
You never can seem to find

“The precise thing you want, the exact thing you need
The one perfect joy to savor
So you collect ALL of the words you can find
Then regurgitate them on your paper

“If it takes you 300 pages
To make someone fall in love
Or turn sad, or feel glad, or grow mad at their dad,
You’re not doing it right, sweet dove.”

The writer stood by in shock
As the barista returned to the front
The poet then said, “Unlike my friend
My order will be nice and blunt

“Now to stimulate the senses,
I think I shall have some tea
Loose-leaf Hibiscus, organically grown
With a healthy swirl of honey

“And as you brew it, please savor the vapors,
Rotate the cup in your hands
Imbibe the aroma, consume the life-force
Of the steam as it coats your glands

Let the tea unshackle your mind
Disencapsulate your soul
Inhale the power, exhale the sorrow
Forever forget your woes!”

The barista backed away from the counter
Softly shaking her head,
“I’ll have to ask my manager
If we can do that,” she said.

The writer gathered his order
And the poet gathered up his
They went to the booth where they always did sit
Both of them, rather pissed

The writer glared at his poet friend
And the poet glared right back
Until the writer finally said
“You know, I just have to ask

“Why you even became a poet,
Why, really, anyone does?
Do you love the sound of your own voice?
Or maybe it’s because

“World-building’s not really your thing
And neither are story-arcs
And to create realistic characters
Now that is truly an art

“See the difference ‘tween you and I, sweet pigeon,”
Said the writer, as he leaned ‘cross the table
“Is I can tell a story
“While you can only ramble.”

“Stories?” scoffed the poet, “You mean those predictable things
With a Beginning, Middle, and End?
Of course I’ve no use for such rigidness
My poor philistine friend

“I should have known the first time I saw you
Sitting right there in that chair
That though you seemed busy with your Moleskine
There was naught tween your ears but foul air

“I am a creator, an artist, a master
The consummate Dreamer of Dreams
With my pen I create Carnivals of Delight
Gardens of Things Never Seen

“Tapestries of Sensations, Whole-body Vibrations
Eternal Emotional Feasts!”
“Oh please,” said the writer, “Give it a rest
Stop word-vomiting all over me.”

And on and on and on they went
The two former friends-now-foes
Their coffee all gone, it wouldn’t be long
Til their words finally turned into blows

But just as one started to rise
And the other began to punch
In walked HE, their sworn enemy
Out on the hunt for his lunch

He swaggered, he smiled, he waved
With the barista he started to flirt
He was loud and uncouth, he had a bucktooth
IT TWAS THE EXTROVERT!

“Hey y’all what’s happening?”
He said where everybody could hear
“Looks like we got a good crowd today.”
And people actually cheered!

And THEN he started to wind himself
Through all the seated patrons
Grinning at our two heroes
As though they were his relations

The writer looked to the poet
And the poet looked back at he
“Why in the world is he coming here?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”

Finally he stood beside them
Eating cronuts by the handful
“Mind if I sit with y’all?” he asked
“Everywhere else is full.

“And y’all look like a couple of dudes
I’d like to get to know
I’m a real friendly guy, just call me Mike
You finishing that muffin, bro?”

“We were just leaving,” they both said at once
As they fled from that small coffee shop
And with nary a word, they headed on home
To the comfort of their laptops.