“—O blowtorch on the snowfall of forgetfulness!”
For months on end he spooned them out,
loading up another spoonful, dusting it with sugar.
There’s enzymes there, he winked at me,
then told me that he did it for his mind.
So I bought myself some yogurt and
stirred them up from the bottom. They
were as tasty as I’d recalled. Within an hour
I’d lost my keys: car keys, house keys, bike
keys, every key I’ve ever owned on a
good-sized ring. There’s a first time,
I think I thought, for everything.
Then I forgot where I buy those things—
the things you dole out every year on the day when—
Jesus, what’s his name? was born in a—Christ—
I think it rhymes with danger.
Today is—I know, Boxing Day—but I still can’t find
the mislaid things. I can’t go out and bargain shop,
for what’s her face in her nameless place—I can’t
make out the thing that’s used to pay her.
I’m stuck somewhere in someone’s house
where I can’t even pour myself a drink.
I’m throwing out those squishy things that
what’s his name spoons months on end then
shovels in his mouth that are the opposite
of yellow and what do you call it?
does something to.