The Fallacy of Selfish Hope

A wish list wadded up and thrown
Upon a roaring pile of logs
That lofts it up a grimy flue;
A missive destined for Saint Nick,
Mary Poppins, Buddha, God,
Some cosmic jinn encased in clouds.
Pathetic practice, don't you think?
As if Olympians care to read
Such childish scraps of mortals' needs;
As if an agency exists
To process charbroiled paperwork,
To paste together pyred lines,
To make our flimsy dreams come true.
"I wish, I wish . . ."
Despairing, I must shake my head,
And drop my pen in favor of
A sulfur-scented match to strike,
To set this fusspot page on fire.