. . . thinking . . .
The black coffee’s aroma hangs thick like a cloud every morning
He sorts through paisleys and patterns and stripes on the door
As he lifts up a vain little finger to stifle the blood
From a close shave in the battle of life
The late night crowd’s returning from an all night bout of drinking
While he’s all-consumed by grand delusions also known as wishful thinking
His star quality seems to escape everyone
Who would be in position to help him
Still he goes off each day in anticipation of all
Of the thrill and the joy that one feels
When he’s making interment arrangements
He’s misunderstood
A book a song a TV sitcom part you’d miss for blinking
Or a winning lotto ticket in his hand is only wishful thinking
Oh its nobody’s fault but his own
So few offers come over the phone
But he still perseveres faces up to his fears
That can cloud the intentions and bring on the tears
Still his spirits get lower each day that this program’s protracted
Moment by moment it takes all he has to go on
But he just grits his teeth charges in slings the arrows back into
The face of outrageous misguided conclusions
And even though he’ll never die a pauper or a rich king
He’s just not content to spend his time on anything but wishful thinking
Oh the groceries and the bills aren’t paid by talking or by drinking
So he just resumes the grind lacklusterly and does his wishful thinking
Wishful Thinking(excerpt)
©1993 Raymond M. Jozwiak
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