Waterloo. A town of dreamers.
Correction, a dreamer.
A tall youth squirms in his seat,
Not wanting to join the other
Chess people
Sitting quietly in their pews,
Listening to the word of God. 

No, this young man
With his honeycomb hair
Dreams of a bigger world;
One outside of these Sunday streets,
Where pink domes sit atop lady heads,
And the bees ant
agonize dew covered lilies.

Faithful romantic,
His world consists of steel arcs
And neon signs.
Brilliant baubles
That beckon in the night,
Promising women draped in pearls
With blood red lips,
And curves like mild hills.
This vision of his, this
Rose colored apparition

Evaporates.
Grey hands reach through the smoke
To pull him back into reality.
The straw hats come back into focus
And the sounds of chess people
Become audible again.