There’s an old man trying to turn left,
and a little boy chasing a brown dog.
There’s a mad man going a little too fast,
and a black and white car, and a man who plays god.
There’s a schoolgirl crossing Broadway at three
and a football game in a vacant lot field.
There’s a poor poet wondering what is it I’m doing.
Well, I’m wondering: Is it for real?
Is it real, is it sane, tell me, what’s in a name?
And, where will you be in five minutes?
Is it real, is it sane, tell me, who’s to blame?
And, I’ll go home when I’m finished.
In five minutes.
Is it for real?
There’s a family wondering what they’ve got left,
and a fireman missing his black and white dog.
And there’s a boy and a girl moving a little too fast,
but not a soul searching for God.
There’s an actress belonging on Broadway,
she’s 33 and she’s wondering how it must feel.
There’s a poor poet wondering, “What is it I’m doing?”
Well, I’m wondering, “Is it for real?”
This is how you felt,
and the hand you were dealt
will never be understanded,
so bloom where you’re planted.
— Rich Williams c. 1997