Tolstoy Tells the Story of My Life

I am walking down the street and suddenly I realize,
Leo Tolstoy is in my head
And he's writing everything that is happening
To me at this very moment.
I hear his deep and sonorous voice
As he describes the way I look at the trees
With their brightly lit leaves,
And wonder as they sway in the warm spring breeze
"Like," as he puts it, "old fat women moving ponderously at an aerobic's class."
He even writes that I feel a sense of false pride
In assuming that it was I, and not he,
That came up with that simile.

"Ah, how fleeting are the chances for glory, thought Daniel."
That's what he writes as I pass the tire swing, where I
Used to push my brother
And recall the time I failed to defend him
From our neighbor Jimmy,
Who stole his popsicle.
He writes everything, only as Tolstoy could,
With such style! And such grace!
The analogy he uses to describe the way I put my hands
In my pockets as being
Like a boat finally docking at the shore
After months of traveling,
Astounds even me.
And indeed I do feel more at home with my hands in my pockets,
And I gaze up at the sky,
And wonder as I listen to this great narration
Of my life, which, as Tolstoy decides,
Must all be my imagination.