When I asked the band
what they wanted
from the bar they shouted,
‘Iowa!’, which I took
to mean all the whisky
they had. Phylicia Rashad
offered to pay, but over
my dead REM sleep so
I waved her away yet even so
there she also already was,
lifting a finger for attention
and winking at me, just
as gracious and affable in
my dream as she’d be
in yours.