Indulge me in a stab at poetry...

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Last night I dreamt I ran away from my life.
Instead of being woken up by requests for pancakes,
I started my day with Starbucks and a meeting with my trainer.
I returned to my modern apartment with the cream-colored couches,
that no one would touch with chocolatey fingers,
and took a shower that included shaving my legs.
On a Thursday.
I toweled off and did not notice I no longer had a body that had been ravaged by
creating and sustaining life.
I applied moisturizer over my smooth, frown-line-less brow,
and needed barely any under-eye concealer.
I blew-dry my hair.
Twice.
Because it didn't turn out right the first time.
I left for the office carrying, not a camouflage diaper bag,
redolent with the odor of a long-forgotten banana and baby wipes,
but a trim leather satchel, with the scarcest of necessities.
Wallet, keys, phone, lipstick, manuscript.
I tightened the belt of my winter-white coat, as I ran for a cab in my impractical heels.
I wore very big sunglasses.
A man looked at me, instead of through me, brood mare with her colts.
Waiting in my corner office, of the red drapes and antique desk, was my assistant.
He had my coffee and a compliment for my hair.
I had very important meetings with very important people.
I wrote for hours on end.
Somebody else brought me my lunch.
There was no peanut butter involved.
I went to Starbucks to clear my head and didn't have to hold the door open with my ass,
as strangers look through the mother made of glass and her huge stroller.
I chatted with the barista instead of wishing he would hurry the fuck up.
Fixed my lipstick.
I met my other single friends for drinks after they left their corner offices.
There were interested parties,
but we were too busy and important to get involved.
But thanks for the drink.
At midnight, I went home.
Alone.
To no one.
Then I woke up.
I kissed my husband, and grabbed my sneakers.
Tripped on a Barbie on the way down the creaky stairs.
Morning run with Beyonce.
I returned.
Happy.
To start making pancakes.