by W.D. Ehrhart
The man with your name and your life
isn’t you. Okay, yes, he’s got your name,
and yes it’s your life; okay,
but he can’t be you. His hair’s turning gray,
his wife’s turning the corner on her way to work,
and he’s going nowhere. Not
in all your dreams did your ever imagine
you would come to this: a small life,
a few friends, a lot of dreams
that came and went, an ordinary life.
You always knew an ordinary life
wasn’t for you.
Oh, not for you with the wind
at your heart and the ache in your soul
about to take wing like a bird.
This can’t be you. There’s some mistake.