I am working in an antique variety store

                 dusting, rearranging,

interacting with an occasional customer

        at the register an old man is standing,

    diligently watching me network his wares  

      as I walk across creaking wooden floors,

           I gesture to a woman to follow me.

       there is something I want her to see,

              something she might be interested in

                                    the sun is setting,

a powerful glare penetrates the storefront window

               passing within the curios and artifacts

                     dust dances within sunbeams

                   fashioning a snow globe effect

              we approach a hickory showcase

        where there is an assortment of glass bottles

                                    and silver urns

      she inquires, “what’s that liquid in those bottles

                            and what’s in those urns”?

            “well, the urns contain stardust collected

                        before I began to work here

and the bottles store dream juice, a very special blend,

              one sip and all your dreams will be lucid

you can control and know what’s within every dream

                  it’s happening to me right now -

                       one more thing, the bottles

                     on the top rack are fermenting

                                  and not for sale”

                  “what’s the formula”? she inquires

           “what ingredients are inside those things”?

                  the old man smiles and responds,

                “synaptic molecules of your being -

            oh yes, the bottles above are fermenting

         and not for distribution or consumption”

            she looks at me, then smiles and waves

                                   to the old man

                                         ka-ching