When the World Was an Onion

I dreamt I woke, and brushed my teeth,
And drove to Hampstead via the Heath.
I told my dreams to Doctor Freud
Who was annoyed. "You dream's devoid
Of any interest. It lacks
All trace of sex, or socks, or sacks
Of anthracite," he cried, quite moved.
"My theories might yet be disproved!"
He puffed upon his large cigar
And took a foetus from a jar.
He put me in the jar instead
And whispered, "Now it's time for bed.
Sleep soundly, son, and if you're lucky,
Your dreams will be both rich and mucky."
I truly tried, with eyes shut tight,
But dreamt I could not dream all night.

Until I woke, not quite aware
But sensing layer upon layer,
Through which a groggy mind might trudge,
Never able quite to judge
Truly for certain: was I in
The onion, or outside its skin?

Wayne Carvosso

If you've any comments on this poem,Wayne Carvosso would be pleased to hear from you.