The Minutiae of Dreams

I chase my cousin about the kitchen table,
running and dodging as best we are able,
jumping chords and pushing back chairs,
the coffee floats beyond the table into air
suddenly, totally dark and scalding hot,
a bitter bit of this or that, but never cream,
just moments of tasting beyond our dreams.

The scraps of my life are not your scraps;
we depend on reading different maps.
I sleep at night and mostly dream.
My days are coffee, black, no cream;
I do not wake at day and dream.
Awake, in sun, I know a total world.
In sleep, I am often lost in endless whirls
of yes and no and Grandma's coffeepot.
I sleep and dream; I wake to stand apart.