I obsess these days 
about how often now I forget
important names,
places: do not recall
any taste of her
skin during sex, or
how long we held it
together, or what we called
our firstborn. My wallet’s
a red, dumb tongueful of
photos I don’t recognize.
My house is a delightful,
frustrating maze becoming
new to me daily after 
thirty years here. I’ve got to
get out, I guess; I must,
I presume.

I don’t think
this is dementia. To be honest
I believe it’s a case of
having worn certain ruts
in my head so deeply that
I’m down to bone and there’s
nothing soft to get hold of.

I think
if I could get outside of this
I’d learn again. I’d forget
all these scattered bits. Start
new paths, be different, then 
meet my old love again. She
might not know me anymore
either. 

We could go over
these photos together. Trace
faces with our worn-down fingers,
one at a time, until one of us
shouted out a name. Maybe it 
would be right, maybe not, but we’d
be happy to have anything
feel correct enough for us to grasp,
a straw against our shared twilight.