I forget what it was that I was supposed to send to you.
It’s that way these days,
leaving objects places,
keys in a pocket, jean jacket on a hotel bed, handprint on your shoulder,
neglecting to ask an important question.
Forgetting to call.
If I were diligent about the small kelly green notebook stored in the front pocket of work
overalls, if I recorded passings there as I promised myself I would then I would be
able to send you now what I said I would send.
Here is a poem I wrote about having amnesia that is both real and not. The non-real
part about it is that it’s not a disease, my forgetfulness, just something I accidentally
wear like a bad haircut.
Here, it’s about a
black box of a day
memories of which are already forgotten,
stowed away in banker’s boxes, kept warm by words
that are not quite right.
The dark day breaks into a gentler night,
like a thief in my kitchen,
crouched on the floor,
bathed in the slight light of a poorly stocked refrigerator.
Last night’s tom kha kai,
some roast beef past it’s prime,
and a plastic squeeze bottle of Grey Poupon.
Microwave time reads 4:03 and
the boot clad bandit
leftovers in his heart,
the word love no longer on his tongue,
sneaks out onto the stoop to smoke the day’s last cigarette,
the morning’s first.
I want to delay tomorrow
today and
not for the first time this week.
Amnesia brain, recall playing
in the mud.