This morning I was retrieving the newspaper when I
accidentally stubbed my toe on a broken dream that
some hooligan had carelessly discarded on the lawn.

After mumbling a few choice words under my breath,
I bent down to look at the dream and saw that it had
once been quite lovely and well cared for.
It probably had been very handsome in its prime,
but even the most resilient dream can snap in two 
if it has been excessively agitated.

Now, in my day we didn’t dump our disappointments 
over another person’s property like rubbish.
Women of my generation had propriety; we kept our
crushed hopes inside of the house, away from prying eyes
and we certainly never made a public display of them.

I still keep my broken dreams in a small powder
blue box at the back of my underwear drawer.
I haven’t see the key to that box in years.

I wonder if I lost it?