Friday, June 22, 2012

My Story

My Story

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.

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