Memories slip down the sidewalk
in a golden
I think they took you, but I’m not certain.
I can’t grasp onto it – anything, really.
There are things I can almost touch,
but they don’t seem relevant.
Some things you did. You always did good
things. That’s why when she comes in the door
and talks for a minute, and I see your eyes,
older, I get twisted. My mind sketches
ideas, chases shadows into the valleys of memory.
The things I want to say to make it (what is it?)
right circle back to my brother
on third base, a man’s angry
eyes. My father? That seems obvious.
Why do you ask?
You do seem like the sort
who would want to know. You seem – quite –
helpful, in your way. You seem sad,
wishing for something,
and it passes.
I have several things to show you, but I don’t
know that they’re what you’d like to see. Still,
they are mine. Come with me.I'm clearing off an old hard drive. I wrote poetry pretty consistently for awhile, a few years ago. I wanted to do a series in the voices of people who had Alzheimer's disease, because I'd just come to the end of my time working as a social worker with them and their families.I stopped here.