picayune and/or belabor

had a panic dream
that Bob Dylan died.
woke up alone
and there was bacon
on the doorknob,
but what the hell
do I know
about cooking
a shirt?

if there is
any space for me
in that spot
between your life
and my lake,
I will and would
look to be lucky
to both our surprise.

nothing for granted,
not anymore,
not even tiny boots
on big coffee tables,
because living is just
a series of people saying
in a little while,
and I don't want to be them bastards.