In my mind's eye,
I envisioned myself
talking to ol' Pablo--
talking about art,
talking about women,
talking about life;
at one point,
he told me
that he dreamt of me, too,
to which I laughed.
'No, no', he said,
'I dreamt of you,
that you are destined
for great things;
you're an artist,
and such is
the fate of all artists.'
And then he smiled;
and then, I knew,
in spite of myself,
he was right.
And as I awoke,
I sat down to write this poem,
thinking of him,
staring down at me,
with that knowing smile,
knowing that he was right.
© 2012 Joseph Powell
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