I was sitting here just now
thinking about why I hadn't gotten up for my coffee yet
and how it must be cold in the pot already
and what was wrong that I have become so lazy.
And then I looked up to see my cup of coffee.
I must have filled it some time ago, and it's gone cold.
I have no recollection of walking to the kitchen.
This incident, extrapolated,
as I am driven to do from the smallest of things,
It tells me that I have forgotten most of my life.
I feel as though I have left bits of my experience littered behind me.
Like skin peeled from a finger left on the edge of a table,
it's grown brittle without me.
Nothing's what it once was,
but the things I've neglected must be even less so.
It feels sociopathic to leave so much carelessly forgotten.
I wonder what I care enough about to recall.
I doubt there is much, if I am honest.
Yet I still savour painful things, unhealthy things, unnecessary things
like the soft Drum tobacco I used to pull apart
and press into a paper crease,
how it smelled like bacon and bread,
sometimes threading its way onto my tongue.
I remember long afternoons spent alone at a window in a sour blues bar,
but I think I am wrong.
There were people there, or a someone, but I've erased them.
My history's littered with cold cases,
and I worry about the fact that I don't mind the holes so much.
The above poem is a response to