the palace at one a.m.
the bastard had a dream this evening.
he was walking through the park on his way home from the evening's repast.
walking past crowds of people waiting for hamburgers and men made of iron standing still.
I walked down 24th tonight because I had bid my company safe home on that corner.
the bastard walked under a bridge.
and under a street lamp was a chrome plated bird.
a rare beast.
the superhawk.
only this wasn't a dream.
it was the bike I have only seen in books.
under a streetlight.
on a Thursday night.
telling me that it's time for a bastard to dream again
about the wind in his face.
and the promise it will bring him.
I will not disappoint.
sweet dreams.
—the bastard
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