These offbeat memories,
almost as forgotten as scenery
viewed from a speeding train,
(“Yer darn tootin’!”)
a blur of leaves, teachers,
mechanics, books I’ve read,
lamps, racing forms, sheet music,
our secret waterfall.
(“What in tarnation?”)
But I never worry about the past.
(“Did yah hear that, fellers?”)
Eventually, the train will slow down
and I will disembark,
light up an autobiographical cigarette
(“Now yer talkin’!”)
then step into the afterlife,
and disappear into a quizzical haze.
(“Well I’ll be a possum’s grandpa!”)