I am not immune
to a little magical thinking
but I no longer see
myself playing the hero
of my life’s story,
more an accidental protagonist
on a perfect September Saturday.
This is what I see from above:
his thinning hair,
how he bends toward the basket,
the clothes flapping in the wind,
fabricky facsimiles of headless torsos,
of pairs of empty legs and buttocks,
hollow feet and ankles mismatched.
No longer the wind
or even golden pollen borne on it,
I am these various wind-snapped clothes
pinned to the line, hung out to dry.