I have memories of times that form the
Future memories of Max, but he'll
Remember scenes I can't recall.
And vice versa. But we were both there—
He, racing round the block on a quest
For grails only his cells and racing thoughts
Could understand—arriving, in a rush,
Not slowing, rushing on. "I'm going
Round the block," he yells, and he is gone again.
Meanwhile I stand, my back against the car,
Watching his swift arrivals and departs.
My cells are weary with the strain of days
Spent in commutes at eighty miles an hour,
But he pedals faster than I ever can,
My thoughts an ocean, slowly heaving,
His voice so bright and clear—he comes again—
Like a swift white gull that over-flies
An old, tired, roaring surf.