I speak to you easily,
shadowy figure in my mmeory,
reliving all your picaresque adventures
pulled out as from a volume on a shelf,
dazzled by all the color and the drama,
each episode pulling Light
improbably from the dark.
I follow all your travels,
converse with you about the cities
where you could feel
forotten amid the lighted towers,
then big and warm at a performance
or a party in your honor.
Your tale is replayed to guitar chords
and whining harmonica strains,
realized in pure colors and words,
etched in the values
painted upon the canvas of life.
You move so comfortably
across these horizons
of the theater of memory.
Yet you, who sit recalling —
where
you
should go,
what
you
should do,
and what I can say to you,
I do not know.