I don’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday
I walked out my door forgetting why as I locked it,
my shoelaces didn’t tie themselves today like they usually do.
Also, I called my friend “Mommy.”

But after certain ungodly hours spent between pages:
I can spell the names of all those ancient Greek poets
and recite the tragic tale of Dido, the Carthagian queen.
If asked, I might outline the life cycle of a fern and
tell those (few) who want to listen exactly how
cells communicate-cascading signals down in a waterfall.
I know the ratio in which certain atoms combine,
in a dance of mutual benefit and energy.

Yet my keys, sitting right there, in front of me,
on the desk where they landed five minutes ago,
play a hiding game as elusive as that thought
which forgotten, tugs at my mind, trying to tell me
its name, trying to tell me the terrible truth that
I didn’t brush my teeth this morning.

Memorizing makes an absent mind.