Dog-tired of my dreams,

I gave them to

Someone who traded in such things.

 

‘Such an exquisite find.

I’ll shift them fast,’

This eager go-between opined.

 

A few years down the line,

Insomniac,

I had an urge to get them back.

 

Polite but firm, he said

That they were sold.

A ‘proper’ price was duly paid.

 

Should I make an offer?

No point. Such dreams

Are now out of my league, it seems.

 

My dreams should feel like clouds

Or like bubbles.

‘They fly so high’. Once sang the crowds.

 

Does anything remain?

From where I stand,

I won’t encounter dreams again.