Rosebud

What is, then, the right measure of a life?
The accolades, the spectacles, the trophies?
A sports car, a chalet, a trophy wife?
Your coffee made just right, a corner office?

The users, the kiss asses and their ilk?
The hangers on, the parasites, the leeches?
That coffee, made with milk that isn't milk?
The ne'er-do-wells with elevator pitches?

If truth be told, you've lost count long ago;
take comfort in clichés and games of inches.
Damned coffee's overpriced, and just so, so.
You're trying not to notice the wife's flinches.

Up on the wall, a moose head, sad and lonely.
Back then you thought it'd be enough. If only.