the real thing - a poem

yes, I know that you think
I am wrong
but
I know what is right for me
and what
is not.
may I tell you my
dream?

I am surrounded by
thick cement walls,
I am dressed in a red
robe
and I am sitting at an
organ.
there is not a
sound.
I begin to play the
organ.
the hiss of the notes
is sharp and soft
at the same time.

it is a slightly bitter
music
but among the dark notes
there are flashes of light and
laughter.

as I play,
the incomprehensible mystery
of the past
and of the present
becomes
comprehensible.

and best of all,
as I play,
nobody hears the music
but me.

the music is only
for me.

that is my
dream.

The Real Thing - C. Bukowski