If "a dream is a wish your heart makes when you're fast asleep,"
what does the heart say when it's awake?
The heart writes its five-year plan. It doesn't play.
The practical heart beats for no maybes, no creeps.
The practical heart is hard as the plastic
its owner lays down to find a man--someone clever--
and fetching thin blouses to wear (despite the weather)
on her dates, where she will chatter, spastic.
The heart burns. Is it love? No, it's reflux,
which the owner shares (so openly) over dinner,
shattering the (not quite) prince's illusions.
Once she gets home, she will wait for the influx
of emails, settle down, search for a winner
and drink more tea to drown the delusions.
(10-minute poem brought to you by my desire to write in tiny spurts with all kinds of rhyme)
(also, this is not quite a sonnet because it's not quite about love)
(also, "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is a song from Cinderella)