               The Other Half of the Dream


As he glides through Silicon Valley in his fancy car 
 with the dollar-sign hood ornament
He begins to feel uneasy.  
Seeking reassurance, he pats the bags of coins 
 on the seat beside him.  
The cold hard cash offers little comfort.  

Suddenly he realizes the problem:  
Half of him is missing.  
The poet, dreamer, artist, He Who Cannot Be Named,
 is no longer there.  

How long he has been gone is unclear.  
He was last aware of him on one rough stretch of road 
 when the car was not fancy at all 
And could barely carry them through the stormy night.  
There were no bags of coins then.  

His other half would keep pestering him: 
"I have this idea ..."
"Not now!  Can't you wait until the road gets smoother?" 
The cries for attention gradually ceased.  
When the road did smooth out in sunshine 
 and the bags of coins started piling up  
He no longer noticed the silence.  

Where had his other half gone?  
Hiding under the seat? 
Jumped out at a traffic light? 
Dried up and blown out the window?  
There's no way of knowing.  

He thinks of going back to search, 
But this is a one-way road.  
There is, however a chance 
That his missing half had hitched a ride 
 or found a short cut 
And is waiting up ahead.  
He needs to make room for him.  

With half a hope he pulls over 
And begins shifting the bags of coins to the back seat.
The cold hard cash offers little comfort.  


                                      -- Thomas G. Digby 
                                      First draft 20:46 08/30/2001
                                      Edited      22:17 08/30/2001
