Sure Ain't Mine

All I can do in this chair is think of you. It suspends me in the air but I am caught in thoughts of you.
All I can do at the lakefront is craft words you'll never read; maybe the lakefront ain't for me no more. Maybe the words ain't for you. I think they are. Maybe the words ain't even mine.
Maybe the elevated ain't for me no more.
Nor the Loop; nor the Chagall; nor the Millennium music nor the grandest & most patient pose I ever struck in front of Essanay Studios nor acts of love in such flatlands from which I hail nor art films shown where a famed reviewer is mistaken for a critic.
Maybe I should run toward the sunset. But you once wished upon the sunset for us to wed, and the sunrise appears over the forsaken lakefront so perhaps I am stuck with the new moon in an empty sky.
Maybe I was born here, just a few miles from here, and maybe another part of me was born right here, in this chair - or was it the other chair? Maybe it all ain't for me no more; maybe it ain't even my hometown now.
Our friends' children get my joyful attention for a moment but then one mistakes your umbrella for mine. I think it's your umbrella. It sure ain't mine, rain or shine.