The choice of season is up to you,
though winter is best for poetry,
and you can pick any time of day—
not just my favorites, dawn or late afternoon,
and mention the day of the week, if you like.
What emotion I was feeling at the time
I would leave up to you as well,
buoyant ease in the shadow of mortality
being one of many options, the mixing
of the sugar of joy and the salt of sorrow another.
Whether I was standing, sitting,
or supine, I also place in your hands.
Where we are located is another matter.
You’re in charge now. Entirely your call.
The choices here can be overwhelming
in a world of at least 10,000 places,
so don’t hurry your selection with this one.
Train windows and rooftops are good.
Or you could pick a beach scene,
a solitary swimmer, arm bent above a wave.
Toss in some shells, whatever you think works.
The pen is in your hand.
You’re up there in the driver’s seat.
I’m not even here anymore.
I’m somewhere else,
leaning against a tree, as it happens.
It’s a Monday around dusk.
Some yellow leaves float down.
I’m 27. A dog stretching at my side.