Baba O’Riley

i wrote a poem in my dream and all of the words
rhymed hard. i woke up muttering something about
short girls drinking tall boys and my dog sat there
nodding at me from the floor, as if to say yes, funnier
girls do have bigger noses. my dog has brown eyes.
he has never lived alone before either. the block
would rumble if he could talk, and he would sound
as wise as tree bark, but i think he’d say the word ass
a lot. just a theory. in my dream, dogs could talk and
someone offered me something free on the way home.
i asked if i was supposed to gum it. the park was closed.
the spiders were out and my dog and i were giggling in a cab.
it was a silly dream but at least spiders rhymed hard with
writers going home in the dark down clark and ashland
while tracing our tongues with poisoned breath from moldy
lungs; the short girls were drinking tall boys and the tall boys
were just leaving. the st. bernard opens his pink mouth and says,
yes, they tend to do that, dumbass. i hugged him and cried
because the dream felt so short. he grins at me as if to say,
don’t worry, i’ve never even fried an egg before.

—By Emmi, 18, Chicago