When you forget who you are

At thirty-five or so I lost my mind
the way you ascend a ladder
and arrive at the top without the tool you need
and get to the bottom again
without a clue as to how to climb
or why you should try.

I found I could swim through a day
in a chair
in an old shirt
with smokes
and reruns
and microwave burritos,
lapping myself, waiving
as I went by in that dizzy pool,
perhaps knowing the face in the mist
but losing the name in the bottom.

You don’t have to know who you are
to make this trip though
I can say now
it is too much to bear alone
when on those days
you talk to yourself
only to find
you are not
on speaking terms.

I hope your thoughts come back
like mine did,
old friends embarrassed by the absence,
offering no excuse but
sheepish shrugs,
holding out
their hands.

If I were you,
and I was,
I would grab and hold on and look them
deep in the eyes
for the sake of your soul
memorize their names.