When the mosquitoes have feasted on our flesh,
And the scent of our sweat-still-pouring bodies sobers us,
We'll then know we've reached our destination.

My young-man's metabolism has metastasized
To all aspects of my life. When it's over
You'll see what I have left:
An empty wallet and a rumble in my gut.

It's time to wake up in a lucid state,
and start inventing words to describe our dreams.

This bath's run cold.
Hit the hot water faucet with a foot flossing out
Kernels of yesteryear. Fixated on the flavors of
The moment--put gold to that silver tongue, and cleanse.

The fire works slow to roast this wienie.
Idle chatter runs off ears reclined in their chairs.
A point's made not caring that they banned lawn darts;
Lucky we have our stained blanket-capes.
We're all superheroes in this suntanned blockbuster.

Poor hound haunted by the dead dog's scent.
Sent into a neurotic state, he is now overweight.
Too concerned with his predecessor's essence,
To even function well. Oh dear, oh my.
It's not that he didn't learn right, he just can't focus;
Sad for an animal that is normally conditioned.
So disheartened, he doesn't lift his leg to mark.
He's too distracted by the old dog's ghost.