Last night I dreamt of that small Poland pond.

Shrouded by forest, the shallow water raises the ducklings above the muck.

I meander around the eroding banks,

The shoreline speckled with sand and mud, akin to the edges of a fluffy pancake.

High-rise apartments tower above the trees,

Worn billboards of Ryan Reynolds and Billy Joel stain the concrete towers.

The overcast day lays shadows across the pond, 

I love the rain, but I can’t live in a storm. 

The dark water becomes Charybdis, consumer of all within. 

I jump.

A dicotomía of logic and desire,

My running shoes slide against the granular sands. 

The Earthly ties fade away as I plunge into the icy reservoir,

My dream career in international business, the water not as salty as some peers may be,

They all fade to nothingness above. 

Fifty-two electricity eels emerge from the depths,

Their shocks emitting brilliant cyan light,

Grandeur rivaling Thomas Edison,

Rendering the quaint pond into a shaken Sprite.

“How wonderful!” my Grandma would say,

Gazing upon the calm dark depths,

Sequestered from the turbulent world beyond the surface.