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 are 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
©1992 Raymond M. Jozwiak
(an 'oldie' pulled from the archives for a rough performance)
