Hey, Buster!
When I close my eyes I see a man in a brown suit
sitting in a hotel lobby in 1947 reading the morning
paper. His thoughts are private and probably
beside the point.
Many years later the clouds
still move from west to east and a hawk may
skim the tops of the trees far up the mountainside.
There is nothing to stop us from placing
objects on a table in the sunlight and painting
false shadows under them to confuse our friends,
if we have any—probably not, if we think that
much about confusing them.
Alas, in such terms
pronouns tend to lose their meaning; lack of
tension or current in between. Life becomes
all a dream, with a nasty kicker when we open
our eyes once more.
