A man in a damp, wood-gray coat
walks onto the first page of my autobiography.
He climbs onto the year of my birth,
plops down, and lights a cigar.
The wind of my youth flutters
the legs of his baggy pants
and lifts an ash from the end of his cigar,
carrying it onto the page
on which I have recorded
the events of this afternoon –
lying asleep in a green field
next to a pile of dry maple leaves,
which are now smoldering and
beginning to curl at the edges.