my memory
with two hands and feet
it’s nice to finally meet
the welcomed guest who’s always
one foot out the door.
I’ve cleared your space
and made your bed, made place
for you to rest in my head
but never you stay.
Just take a seat
Peer at the tree with
fallen leaves of familiarities of
the life I knew when I was four.
I will never know those things more. 
The room next door
has drawers of numbers I’d ought
to have remembered in order
if even for a quarter past
thirty seconds
but they all crowd in corners
when my hand holds the handle
to find them.
Don’t look at me
like it’s no way to be,
having little luck with 
keeping such things neat.
my memory, it’s you 
who’s trouble.

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