Bluebird

In dreams, I flew;
not soaring - like a kite,
nor pedalling da Vinci’s trike.
But fly, I did.
In winds 9-high, Beaufort Scale
- greatcoat spreading, heavy sail.
'But how?' You say,
that’s never been done!
Why are you the only one?

In dreams I could
fly down your street;
at precisely 13 feet.
I watched your fights and making love:
rarely did you look above.

Flying over
Everytown,
I saw my life while looking down;
taken chances, imagined slights
passed beneath undizzy heights.
Schoolfriends, girlfriends marched below,
talking, squawking, they didn’t know
I flew above
to fly - and spy - on all,
except the very, very tall.

My dream came true
one sunny day;
I flew completely, quite away,
with no greatcoat, or sail aback.
What would Sigmund make of that?