I lay among Wordsworth’s imaginary golden daffodils,
beside the lake, beneath the trees
mesmerized by his golden garden.
I find myself tasting Rosen’s mother’s cake
oozing with chocolate, filled with sweetness
licking my lips, salivating.
I believe in Billy’s glass-bottom boats of heaven,
the one through which the dead look down,
staring back at the ceiling, hoping my grandma’s watching me back.
I stay in this world created by beautiful poets
lost in the images etched in my mind
while the cursor blinks pointedly at me
waiting to create my own.