By the third cup
of coffee I remember
my name.
My occupation. What
I’m doing here.
I remember my favorite
book and why it’s
important. I remember
the itchy part of my soul
that hasn’t healed yet.
The new wounds.
I have searched out
my name in published
words. Searched out
who I am in books
by Brennan Manning.
By Ernest Hemingway.
By Lee Smith. A really
eclectic set.
I remember by noon
where I am supposed to be
but can’t shake this feeling
I’ve forgotten something
important. Maybe the most
important thing.
