Embargo

I wonder, where are my dreams hiding?
I miss their precious comate as I wash my face in the morning
Their reflection on the mirror
Their cloud I step on barefoot jumping out of bed
The colors and the signs
No, I am not complaining
I was left my cat’s charm
Her flossy cuddling
cat is ignorant of poetry, though
like all poems
I behold the shapes in my coffee-froth
Composing omens
First, dreams have gone
Then what?
on the steaming cup
Dance my tiny wishes
I wish I had cat’s seven souls
Octopus’ three hearts
Horowitz’s ten fingers
However,
wishes are not dreams anyhow
and words are not a poem.
Finally, my keyboard found the key
Refusing to write in Greek
balking my last resort
I feel the panic of embargo
I am Cuba of writers
Hemingway’s coffee break
At last,
my coffee’s fume is sketching me a query
screaming desperately like a torch singer
bounding me like an innocent child
“no native language, no memory of dreams
Will you carry on writing by all means?”