Cloud

A chalky streak on blue sky.

A vapor.  More imagination​

Than substance. 

Hamlet knew this, knowing dreams

Are ethereal.

Hamlet In The Morning

Walking to work tired, feet sticky
With the aftermath of dreams.
They made sense earlier this morning
And still cling to my shoes.

Is this the way, always?
To wake.  To sip coffee and memory,
And then walk between
The linger and abrupt necessity?