I
was searching high and low
Though
it wasn’t clear exactly where
I
was supposed to go.
I
was frantic as I rooted
Through
my bag with all its stuff
As
the line was inching forward
And
I knew I couldn’t bluff.
But
at last, I seemed to find it,
Zip-lock
baggied, buried deep,
So
I stuck it in a pocket
Knowing
it would safely keep.
The
analysis is easy;
There’s
no need for Dr. Freud.
With
my passport gone I couldn’t travel,
Which
I’ve so enjoyed.
It’s
ironic, though, that in the dream
There
was a happy end.
In
reality, my travel now’s
No
better than pretend.
No comments:
Post a Comment