A third of my life is spent being disappointed.
Some men can dream of riches, sex or glory,
my dreams are of getting and staying lost,
of repeating grunt work over and over,
or of providing favors without thanks.
Just occasionally, a grudging pittance
is tossed me by a snide subconscious,
and I’m allowed to take pleasure in
little achievements gone at rising.
Is my waking ego so inflated that
I must be humbled every night?
I long for orgies of interesting
imaginings leaving me smug
and smiling in the morning.

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