My birth year 1951:
I've seen a few futures in hindsight
but never saw them coming.
My line in time
tangled with others
without ever really touching
Crooked
Crimped
Coiled
Hardly textbook straight
A pile of pickup sticks?
not a plausible configuration.
Who is to say who I am?
Once reluctant to accept face value;
now more respectfully considerate
of things as they are.
I carry chapters.
Even one volume
too pretentious to surmise
Besides
the story never ends
with my short thread
of little lines entwined,
a packaged possession
like any other living thing
coated and scattered as dust
from the wizard's thrust,
Swirling in the heat of stars.
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