come to think of it

I watched a dream
and it seemed to be happening.
There was a debonair spy in it, 
who was me. And 
he knew impossible things,
and so did I. And you were there,
Susan, my wife of some years 
back, and our son 

oh, our son 
was the same
as he never was. 
It transpired he had been
replaced by faeries, and so
we set off to get him back.

My hulking debonair robot
manservant, (whose personality
had been restored; someone else
had taken over) (backstory), cheered
and encouraged us, singing my 
theme song: "Oh, who, better
know, that it's the Rose?" I 

was the Rose. But so much else 
happened, and we got distracted 
by another plot, and I forgot I was 
a spy, and you forgot you were 
my wife, and as to our child, 
well, I have heard the faeries 

aren't so bad. We sat at a red 
metal table for two in a Formica
plated café, and a slot opened up
in the floor. Straps shot out
from our round red stools and
in some novel way cinched tight 
about our waists, and the whole thing
lurched and slid away. Into a tunnel 
of menace in the far rock wall
of the café, which - come to think
of it, had always been there.