Forget Me Nots
At my age, memory
becomes
a codger’s crowded
mantle. Ball jars
brim
with marbles—
slags, agates,
patches,
swirls of oxblood
in milky white,
crystals
pocked and rough
as the cratered moon.
Castoff
utility insulators
form like men in
God’s
reunion regiment
of afterthought
blue.
The vintage ceramic
planter, Little Miss
Muffet,
morphs into desk supply—
pen and pencil
catchall,
notes and Post-its
nearby—but a long-legged
spider
already crawls
the fading Miss’s
yellow
dress, her heart-shaped
mouth an open
glyph
of blindsided surprise.