The cushion of my desire is plump, and beckons boldly, waiting for my back to sink back softly into sleep, caressing gently. Reality is different. My feet press hardly on the lumpy seat, my bottom strains, against compressing pants that have and hold. My nerves fire pain from back to foot and back again that cramps and grasps, unseen, beneath my skin, beneath my pale, unfettered skin. Bring me tea to drink I will not think of poppy, wine, or other far off dreams. Somewhere the world is beautiful and there is peace.