Day 575

This is the market 
of broken dreams.  Here
is a young girl’s dream
of becoming a poet. Here 
is another girl’s dream of traveling
to India, watching dancers dance
in their colorful saris.  This market —
unlike any other market here —
is full to bursting: purveyors
of broken dreams (is this,
too, a dream?) calling out
their wares. Here is a mother’s dream
of seeing her infant son
heal from his wounds,
have his arms and legs
whole again, as they were
only days ago.  Here
is a brother’s dream
of his older brother
coming back to life, telling him
the secret that now
he will never tell anyone.