for Dorothea Lange

for Dorothea Lange

It was not until
the cat
woke me from
a dream
that I realized
my cat was a realist.

No time to waste
under water with
bubble-talking fish
and tea.
No time to waste
trying to pick up

a penny
from the ground
with hands
10x larger than usual.
No time to waste
dining with a king-

or rather under
the employ of a king
because someone
might have poisoned
the roast boar
and it is my sad job

to make sure it is safe.
No time to waste
networking with babboons
in an African field
in the shadow of a mountain
that more-or-less

resembles
my dead grandmother.
No time to waste
sitting in a field
cross-legged while
the opera singer hits a screaming note

only for me as
the moon slowly
encases us both.
No time to waste
walking in the west
arm-in-arm with

a migrant mother,
some Okies and
dusty children follow-
clutching stomachs
that soon burst forth
with moths and profits.

My realist cat now
tips its derby, adjusts it’s waistcoat,
and tells me I have
no time to waste on dreams
before it leaves for a meeting with the prime minister
of some romantic place.