It was a simple mission.
He just wished to see
how many thoughts he had,
and what the various types were.
He started counting
one softhearted morning in the spring.
He sat at his window overlooking the street
where cars were carefully carrying their passengers.
He counted his thoughts
as they drove down the streets of his mind.
There was a golden idea going east to the sunrise,
and a small industrious idea
that shook like its engine wished to ascend the steepest hills,
and an idea the color of roses
that rolled along with heroism and independence.
Soon he saw that his mind
was a city with no discernible boundaries
containing thoughts of countless numbers and styles.
The streets were busy but serene.
The thoughts were strong
because they were precisely what they were supposed to be.
There was a silent thought
that slipped along like a sports car,
and a silver idea that whizzed along
with sixty other silver ones
down a spotless street that had no end.
He sat at his window.
Down on Spring Street the cars
seemed to be singing to their passengers.
He just kept counting,
and his counting was something like singing.