Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking

If I’m born again, what might I be?
A mouse, a dog, a fish, a tree?
Perhaps a whale, blow-hole bellowing,
Or a damsel-fly in autumn, mellowing.

I might come back a snuffling pig,
Truffle-hunting, dreaming big.
Or then again, a lazy cat
Laid out long and low and fat.

Of course, I could come back a worm,
Unseen, unloved, a thin, brown squirm.
Or what about a tiger, right?
In the shadows of the night.

But that’s been done, I cannot thieve
Although this is just make-believe,
A dreamed escape from deepset sorrow
The light of hope for a new tomorrow.
 
In the end, I’ll never know.
Could be carp, or crab, or crow,
I wouldn’t mind a chimpanzee.
Anything really. Just. Not. Me.