I was lounging inspirationally in Dreamland

under an incredible spring blue sky and dominant Sun,

upon a Whitmanesque expanse of uncountable blades of grass
(urging me to give witness with deep breaths and exaltations),

affront a massive granite obelisk soaring to the beyond,

about to compose a poem upon ‘Serious Play’,

when a girl in a pink thong and matching pink bra

came up to me to say: “Dream happy in Dreamland, baby.”

Considering that my thoughts about serious play

and the vision of a girl thonged-pinkly precisely overlapped

(sexual desire being the source of much playfulness,

attention to all the intricacies of pleasure requiring some seriousness),

I offered her a beer and beckoned her to stay

(never can too much of such inspiration ever get in the way).

“Would love to, baby.  Would love to…”
 Then, like a surge of cogent energy in rapid transit, she simply disappeared. 

(As quick as a text message on a cell phone flashes on, flashes off.)

Holy fuck.  I almost gave a beer to an apparition.

Yet her wishes of happy dreaming remained

as I drank her  beer and imagined her pink bra and thong cast

passionately aside upon luxuriant blades of grass.

(…Whitman himself would have roaringly admired

the resulting embracing lust of us.)