Commuter

It’s on my way to work that I dream. Of places I’ve been or want to go, of times long ago or those to come. Of could’ve been's and what might be’s. Maybe it’s the promise of the morning sun, the hopeful glow it casts on the old brick buildings, but the streets beg to be traveled. The mountains in the distance dare to be topped.

Then I hit a stop light.

I’m only going to work, we’re I’ll sit inside and do what I do every day. And those days become weeks, years, and so on, and in those weeks or years maybe I’ll live out some of these dreams, or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m destined to leave them at that, dreams. Either way, I hope I’ll still look to notice the small art along the way. The gnarled tree stumps arranged in the yard, the flowers spilling from paint buckets lining the cracked concrete walkway. The amber glint of the antique bottles sitting on the porch rail.

The light turns green. Time to go.

Whatever happens I just hope I’ll keep dreaming.