I know I couldn’t have seen what I saw,
but I know I saw it anyway.
An old man, waving, his hair as gray as ash,
his beard trimmed short, a weathered Yankee cap,
his eyes like magic eight balls, googling my senses
causing me to stop and turn, knowing
I’d imagined what couldn’t be. But the mind
doesn’t have to play by any rules
that aren’t of its own creator,
like those magic eight balls whose advice
never really did make much sense,
whose questions we never truly sought to answer.