Over the pond.

“He’s left one shore, but not yet reached the other”,
A flighting dream,
From which he is to awaken
Over the pond, for sure.

Still this dream is no dream at all;
A script written
Not unlike realism, no part a-Brecht
But like a piece of Chekhov
Replaying through his mind;
A re-enactment of those closing scenes -
Should-be forgottens from long ago.
Or even those archaic, perhaps,
With no evidence of a glittering briny
To dance through the mind.

And nought but a brief espy,
The two at total unawares
Of this significance
In front of the gumusservi that night.