My poetry collection lays 
discarded on the bathroom counter 
where my sister left it,
forgetting to bring it home. 
It didn’t bother me, until
I dreamed about it last night. 

In my dream state, 
my consciousness recalled
a friend with tears in her eyes
as I handed her a copy to keep.
“I’m honored,” she told me. 

My dream then shifted 
to my sister. “There’s a poem
in here about you,” I told her. 
“Cool,” she replied, sitting 
down the thin green book
and never picking it up again.

And I’m not mad, I’m not, but
my dreamself was. And though
I don’t trust it, for once,
I’m inclined to listen.