Last night after eating Chinese I was exhorted to be happy And that I have lots of reasons To be so, by an impertinent Fortune cookie.

I must admit that I felt Let down, for I was expecting predictions, Which come wrapped in that shell Of flour, to be more sugary. Say:

I will soon win the lottery Or dazzling poems will efflorescence from My balding pate or more modestly The large bed I now share with books I will share with someone else.

Still like all men, my body Which is replaces itself completely Every seven years or so, finds A reason to go on living, Even if it is mostly yearning

To be singed by passion Rather than living in this way, Which perhaps frightens even the dead. This is the greatest mystery I attempt To decipher, as I listen to it with my Existential angst ridden, insomniac desire For happiness.