Fishing from my stream of consciousness

 

My thoughts are never running deep

My hook - a paperclip –

My bait is smelly as my feet,

Ideas, they squirm and slip –

 

All my life has been upstream

The banks, forever closed –

It’s always summer in my dreams,

But from there - nothing flows.

 

One day I’d like a fine canoe

Float past the Weeping Willows –

With time to sort through fluffy down

Retrieving dreams from pillows.