In my dream, Bing Crosby

asked if I’d rather be a fish

(the birds were crying “No!”)

and we sort of tap danced

over a plywood hillock

while a paper moon swung

dangerously low.

I felt warm and excited

at the prospect of being part

of a musical number

with the man with the pipe.

He beat me, of course,

and I awoke sweating and snapping

my fingers, wishing for a smoke.