by: Donald Hall
Unicorns envy their cousin
horses a smooth forehead.
Horses weep for lack of horns.
Hills cherish the ambition
to turn into partial
differential equations,
which want to be poems, or dogs,
of the Pacific Ocean,
or whiskey, or a gold ring.
The man wearing the noose
envies an other who fondles
a pistol in a motel room.
_________________________
Every morning I get out of bed, I plan a perfect day. Perfect breakfast and drive to work. Perfect eight hours of labor. Perfect drive home and dinner. On weekends, perfect long afternoons, reading a good book. Perfect time at church, worshiping God perfectly. You get the idea.
We all want perfect lives. All think that the person with 100 million dollars in the bank has a perfect life. Or the writer who just received the Pulitzer Prize. Or the lucky bastard who wins the 300-million-dollar lottery. Of course, nothing can be farther from the truth.
Just remember today that somebody thinks YOU have a perfect life.
Saint Marty has already messed up five times today, and it's not even noon.
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