Most Days

I dreamed I was Francisco, grinding wheat into flour and filling cotton sacks which I stacked in the corner for the boy to come and take away and my hands were thick and strong and the wheat dust made me sneeze, and I smiled at the rising sun, most days.

I dreamed I was Cecilia, and I wore a blue uniform when I drove the city bus, along Broadway, from downtown to the suburbs and back again, collected fares from bleary eyed office workers and indigent transients looking for a place to get out of the rain and I smiled at each rider, most days.

I dreamed I was Bastion, and I wore a kippah to temple where the rabbi unrolled the scrolls and read the sacred text and we spoke the sacred words and I averted my eyes whenever the woman from down the street was there, most days.

I dreamed I was myself, dreaming of other people, walked around in their skin for a while, confused when I woke up about which parts were me, and which parts belonged to someone else, pulled the pieces, tried to stitch them together, most days.