HIS CENSUS

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.