Voyages to the Isle of REM,
Are all unplanned, yet memorably brief.
No call for an umbrella, ticket, or map,
Save a cool pillow in the dark of the night.
The setting there is bright but vague,
An impenetrable mist of reprised life,
An exotic fog of personal past, dressed,
In a chaotic scenario of myopic recall.
As we age, so does the vexing problem
Of life’s presenting doubts,
As to life indeed recalled,
Or what was voyaged in the night.
Leonard N. Shapiro NYC, 8/23/24
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