I dreamt last night that it was morning
And a man I hate, and I, sat at the table
Eating breakfast.
In front of me was a bowl of dry cereal
And for him an orange rolled beneath his palm
Silently, as the air and breath passing between us.

I idly wondered
How much he knew of quartering.
Enough to know the history?
The wording behind the amendment?
The reason it was put in place?
Or just enough to say
“You rent this place, but do not own
So your argument is void
And insult”?

But I said nothing.

Then, I idly wondered
If asked of Ozymandias, would he understand
What that traveler intended with his words?
The lessons on hubris, on impermanence?
Or would he merely say,
“This is why funding the arts is pointless
Since they amount to nothing in the end”?

But, again, I said nothing.

And, finally, I wondered
If I asked what he thought of this breakfast,
Why he had but a single orange
Stolen from the platter on my table
And I a bowl of cereal,
Would he say
“I assumed you couldn’t cook”
Because he saw the pancake mix in my pantry,
The bacon in the freezer, the eggs in the fridge,
The oil and spices in the cabinet,
Yet I took down but a bowl, a spoon,
And some dry cereal?
Or would he merely sit, and stare,
And roll his orange in silence
Because he did not want to humble himself
And ask for something more?
Or to admit he knew precisely why I did not offer more
To start?

“Did you know,” I finally said,
Irreverent, empty spoon tapping my chin,
“I know a thousand ways an empire falls?”

But I woke up before he answered.