Joshua wants a wish tonight
but doesn't know what wish to make,
if one is right and one is wrong,
and so he ventures to the lake
where he and she do not belong.
But it's too late to overwrite
the questions forming for the bullfrog,
black and slimy in his deep
waters, surrounded by his reeds,
with no prophecies to keep
Joshua wishing on the needs
that slur behind the darkening fog,
the blinding clouds of heart clichés.
He wants a star to wish upon;
he wants a name to fill the blank,
a name before the blank's withdrawn,
a penny for the piggy bank,
a sun for all the stormy days.