dream is a vagabond

The cow’s indolent moo at 11 am
induce multiple yawns,
the time, when lac-reeking envelopes and postcards
arrive at the local post office in my village;
the tea time luckily coinciding with,
to wash down hints of erosive eroticism,
inciting nagging lassitude.
Sounds of music, football, tops and marbles
and moss reeking breeze from the pond,
salvaged the moment’s catch,
at the critical time of 11AM
on a dull holiday,
cached in the hypothalamus.

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