Sunset in a Coffeehouse

Drawing on my iced eskimo,
Turning a mid-day paper too,
This evening, beaten, zilch to show,
I sit and stretch, not much to do.

The smoldering sun sees me stare...
That rascal, damn!, it mocks me so;
A sip, a read... no good, I bare...
My rest undone, my specters flow...

I reflect a little, and wonder more
On how wondrous everything would be,
If every morn, a brand new door
Could hold beyond new sights to see...
If every dream could form and shape
Our deeds today, but never last,
And every night could mean escape
From highs and haunts of hours past.

If we could all be wholly free
From every trailing thread of yore...
If morrows could have no memory
Of what happened just a day before...
Imagine, oh, that paradise
Devoid of angels, and devils dancing behind...
A place where you are only wise
To the eternal sunshine of your spotless mind...

A smile arrives, a whisper leaves
But fogs my vision... it's turning cold...
My eyes unfreeze as winter weaves
And kills my specter's slippery hold;

The sun has set, its sunshine gone
And I return to my tubelit coffeehouse...
My wishes resigned, my eyebrows drawn
In memory of my constant grouse...