Like I’m old, looking back… (Mama put my guns…) In the background, from some old stereo. I lean backward. On the ceiling, in a ring of film shots, the episodes of what’s happened, of what will have happened, imaginatively, by a certain point in the future when, like I’m old, I’m looking back (windshield wipers… on the way to New…) Driving. Driving on, through, and past, you on the other seat, sunny, a fact then, when I’m looking back. (As I remember your eyes were…) the white of the ceiling – white doesn’t exist – reflects all the colors from the shots as in the covers of magazines about our life, diva-like poses auctioned off into simple abodes, looking back, like I’m old… (“Songs for you” – the cd still works!) People stunned that we’re still here and wondering, us, if there’s a meaning in having lived long and succeeded in getting old.