I found it at a garage sale
on Hayworth near Beverly Boulevard
from a woman so old and only half there.
Or maybe she was halfway there. Closer than that, I bet.
Coral pink frosted lipstick smeared across her cheek.
A real peach.
Hollywood original with class.
I wrote poems on that. Lots of poems, she said.
Manifestos for Love.
That was the name of the book.
You a writer?
I dream of it, I say.
I dream a lot.
He wanted me to sell it, she said.
He said they were a dime a dozen,
and that dreamers don't make money.
Bunch of dreamers, he said. The world's heavy with them.
You should be a lawyer or a realtor or something useful.
The most romantic thing you do is walk the dog,
I told him.
He was right, but I left one morning anyway
with all my clothes still in the closet.
Carried my Underwood under my arm.
Never travel far without my dreams.
I typed Good-Bye! a hundred times
and taped the page to his hairy chest while he was still asleep.
That was the most fun I had in years.
I may be old, she tells me. But I can still dream.
Many manifestos were born from this heart.
I probably should have been a lawyer
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