Hypnotherapy

The man in the Red Sox cap
sleeps.
Mouth dripping
Down
Down
Down
like candle-wax.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough
I can see
your chest hair.
Head is a buoy on the sea
bobbing to and fro
in the throes of slumber.

You are rainbows
while the rest of us
are telephone drones
and magazine whores.

You dine with Andy Kauffman
while the lady next to me
coughs up something
I never want to see
or hear again.

You are making love in the sand
not even caring who she is
just that she is beautiful
and right now
she is your sea
your mountain
your home
loins shuddering.

As I listen to air
pass through your deviated septum
I am comforted to know that nothing
I ever do
Will be as impressive
As the visions behind your sleeping eyeballs.