I often dream
of a rickety third-world bus
when I gave my seat
to a young country woman,
joking with her
nudging her to accept
the small gift.
Then,
eclipsing everything,
I played with her smiling baby
a dirty baby
a loved baby
wrapped in a tattered blanket
grinning
under his mother's admiring gaze.
I used to dream huge dreams
to save the world.
I was so very wrong.
