Dream Leftovers on a Friday Morning
By Don Iannone

Scads of uncouth dreams last night,
that lurked, sputtered, darted, and danced
like ghosts, one-engined airplanes, gazelles, and sugar plums
through my tired old sleeping head.
Coffee cup in hand this morning, I sit like the Pink Panther,
searching for clues in fog-heaven.
Time, the joyless and stealthful vulture it is,
steals away the big pieces, leaving only fragments
of what the giant dream machine produced,
while resting on my fluffy white pillow.
As the tug of daylight yanks me into consciousness,
all the freak shows I watched while sleeping
are lost forever in the daydreams bubbling up inside me.
My day mind wants to yield to its ususual yearning for truth,
like a thirsty dog's insatiable longing for a drop of water,
but somehow dream bits,
like shrapnel from the battlefield,
embed themselves, and I can't forget them.
As I gulp down the last of my coffee, I smile
and decide today can only be a continuation of my dreams.
What else could be possible on a Friday?