Dreamers
You're going to wear out the snooze button again. Shower, shave, put the coffee on. Don the standard attire; suit jacket, a pair of slacks. Hair's getting a bit long; you should probably take care of that.
"Yes sir, no sir, thank you sir," from inside three white walls. Remember! Don't fall asleep in the meeting. Grab a smoke. Is it lunch time yet?
Click. Logout. Mash the pedal, never escaping fast enough. Bumper to bumper the whole way. Finally home; too exhausted to care.
Click. Lets see what's on.
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Age nine. You're going to be an Astronaut. President. Explorer. You're going to be a fire engine.
You grew up. Manufactured some responsibilities. You went to college; got a proper job, at a proper company, in a proper suit — a proper cog. A modest home in a modest neighborhood. Dreams traded for security; hopes for rationalizations.
All because nobody ever told you...
You could have been a fire engine all along.
(There's still time)
