Your day, a gray-flat stratus of a sky,
runs on humidity and sogs the mind
with melted ice cream, watermelon rind,
as uninspired summer hobbles by.
The afternoon will settle, like a fly
on honey, six legs stuck in disrepair.
Though thunderstorming evenings clear the air,
ennui is moderate, not hot and dry.
The day collects as dew upon a glass,
and tracks in rivulets to tabletop,
but life’s not uneventful as it seems.
Though clouds will rumble on as hours pass,
its manufacture never deigns to stop.
The day becomes the engine of our dreams.