After T. S. Eliot,"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Last night I dreamt of riding on the back of a wild wind
soaring past Sirius and Cassiopeia,
swashbuckling through the Milky Way, defeating snarling bears
and slimy dragons, charging deadly monsters and hairy demons,
rescuing  a stranded princess or two, left behind
in Carthage or on the rocks of Naxos.

This morning we sip coffee and talk about supper, pasta
since it is Tuesday, not Wednesday which is always soup.
Or should we try the new Asian restaurant, rave reviews,
but reservations required, parking impossible, waiting in line,
surly servers who forget to bring the dessert menu
until it’s almost nine, the hour we fold our books,

Turn out the lights and slide into separate worlds.
We decide to stay home and watch TV.
I tell you about my night of heroic deeds, my feats
of daring, the dreams of an old man growing bald,
an imposter pretending to be Jason or Heracles,
as he rolls the bottoms of his faded jeans
and reaches for his coffee spoon.