In all my daydreams’ dining rooms,

you are folding pancakes.

With flour on your pajama legs—

the hollows hushed with Mandrakes.

All our neighbors don’t like Nazis.

News headlines are mundane.

As the early morning paper

grows and softens in the rain.

In all of my made-up bedrooms,

You always make your bed.

With a Wolfhound warm within it

or lightning bugs at your head.

Crooked smile across the table

— God— best I ever saw.

And the only ice we speak of

is the kind that March can thaw.

And we clear away the dishes.

You sing up brand-new dreams,

As the raindrops fall like diamonds

from the gutters’ leaking seams.

I whisper, “All’s as it should be.”

A world I’ve spun a-new:

a strange place of peace from power,

flour, lightning bugs, and you.