poetry

persistence of memory

i would like to write something new
trouble is, i don’t have an original
thought in my head
and all i can do
is remember everything
that already happened
well, not everything
there are clips missing
from the highlight reel
that loops through my memory
things i wish i could recall
instead of the million insignificant details
i relive with shocking clarity
there was a summer evening once
in a hundred-year-old house
hard wooden chairs
and worn wooden floors
and talk of color to soften
the white plaster walls
then a voice softly sang a snippet
of casimir pulaski day
that quiet first refrain
about light against a shoulder blade
there the remembrance terminates
and though i try to recall
what comes next, nothing does
except a small shattering of ideas
forging a new
and inconvenient frame of mind
out of all the myriad mundanities
eminently forgettable
why does this one remain?

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