Cold Cases

cold coffee

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,

worries me.

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.

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The above poem is a response to

Amy Turn Sharp's call for 5-minute breakfast poems on Fridays during the month of April

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