SOMETHING FAMILIAR
You are 72 years old
and the car you are driving
is
an island
that everywhere leans
toward you
there are no birds
but the air
is
full
a tepid bath
about your limbs
you think you have been sleeping
and wonder slowly
if you have missed
a favorite cast of sun through leaves
or a face
it's your neighborhood
you've been passing, and here
someone would know you
some hand might wave
from the haze
you go slowly, and it's warm
and you're sure there is someone
but you can't remember who.
