Ordinary Sunday

A Sunday morning is filled with ordinary
The clock flashes 10:06
As I lie in bed trying to picture what type of day it is outside
What color is the sky, I wonder. Are there clouds? Is the grass covered in dew?
The sun is already too high to pride myself on having risen early
Yet still too low to boast that I’ve slept in
And so I do neither
I search for constellations on the ceiling
And imagine myself in a far-off place

In a field of purple wildflowers
I am on my back
Staring up at the stars
Nestled safely in the arms of a gentle foreigner
Only it is me who is the foreign one
I come from a land he has seen only on t.v.
My accent is thick and rich
The blonde streaks in my hair and the paleness of my skin are exotic
We drink Sangria from a crystal pitcher
And never have I been so close to the moon
I kick off my heels and the tall, damp grass tickles my toes
As he teaches me to salsa
We can just make out the beat of a drum somewhere in town
And he whistles a Latin tune that I have heard once or twice on the radio

The radio, I realize suddenly, is on
My salsa music melts away
Beneath the Big Y jingle that is much too cheery for a Sunday morning
My alarm was set for 10:30

Many a Sunday morning have come to pass this way
It takes an ordinary day to dream extraordinary dreams
Over the years I’ve loved that dream
I’ve searched for ways to make it real
Now the time has come to say goodbye
To ordinary Sundays and extraordinary dreams
Tonight I leave for that far-off place
Though I may never find my dream
For you can chase a dream to the ends of the earth
And get there to learn it is not a dream at all.