Big American fridge
I often lie awake and wonder
About the things that I might like
If money were not an issue,
If space were not an object;
How much my life might change,
And how much might stay the same,
If I were suddenly freed from
The common burdens of my age.
Yeah, maybe I would like a fast car
To take a road-trip from here to Alaska;
Or a holiday in Svanetia;
A postcard to say “Guess where I am?”
A new suit cut properly to fit –
Not from TK Maxx;
And a new set of diamond-tipped drill-bits
To penetrate ceramic and glass;
A giant billboard to advertise
My fourth poetry collection;
And a lawnmower that runs on sunshine;
And critical appreciation;
And a big American fridge.
Yeah: a big, American fridge.
The kind of fridge a cat could get lost in:
A big American fridge.
They say you can’t take it with you when you go.
Well, what do they know?
They say money can’t buy you happiness;
But money can buy you marshmallows.
And money can buy you more money.
And money can buy you more time.
And yours can buy all of mine:
Dollars in my dime.
And I’d like a memorial stone
When I succumb to cirrhosis or gallstones.
And then you can leave me all alone
In a field with a view of another.
And maybe there’ll be one little river
To wash away my bladder and my liver
And maybe even one little bridge
Over my big American fridge.
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