The mountain

The mountain was wearing clouds like a shawl,
and the trees listened to her singing, rapt—
did I really witness this, or was it a dream
I saw somewhere, that hooked into me and dragged
along picking up its own detritus like
a busboy? Have I lived my life
or built it out of half-remembered commercials,
snatches of songs, found furniture abandoned
on the street, cardboard, or interesting twigs?
It lumbers and roots around; is it looking for
something to hold in its hand, like a cane?
I don’t know. Remember, I’m talking about my life,
not a troll or a metaphor. My life
is a mountain of garbage walking around
and upsetting other piles, strewing them
everywhere, not even stopping to look
for proverbial treasures before wandering off,
head ringed by clouds, singing to itself.