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I Dream I Am Walking the Streets of an Unknown Metropolis with Anthony Bourdain and He Thinks Me a Bit of a Doofus.

 Asleep, the night after Fathers Day when my kids
Don't call me, I dream I accidentally meet Anthony Bourdain.
I am on a bus to a bus to another bus to a departure.
'This is no accident," he says. "Ditch your adverb.
I made some calls and I have to say I am pretty
Disappointed. I mean based on what I was told
You were less American Gothic; I was expecting conversation
About the redistribution of wealth in post-Utopian autocracies
Or a drunken brawl atop the tallest building in the city
Where we get arrested for putting at risk the only,
If relatively average, daughter of the Sultan."
What can I say? I was stumbling around the aisles of a dream
.
Bourdain and I ascend toward silvery transits.
He looks me over with what I think must be disdain.
"Look, the hero, the anti-hero, the priest, the doubter,
They all depend on self-righteousness. Avoid that."
He steps away. I wave and descend the stairs
Away from him. Now aboard he grabs the handset
From the engineer and over the intercom says,
"Dude, that Dean Yeagle T-Shirt is for someone
Fifteen years your younger. What can I say?
I kind of think you're a doofus." Who is Dean Yeagle?
Beep. Beep. Beep. This is the sound of this poem
Backing tip. I hear a piece of the house singing.
What's the rule? Never write about a dream. Never.
I guess some people are just born to be assholes.
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Author:Koehn, David
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2017
Words:293
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