Remembering feels like a finger dipping
Into a puddle at the back of my head
Our memories are still water
Cold, muddied, stepped in
They fill the dimples in the asphalt
Of my mind
If remembering is a water sport
Then I am an old fisherman
Trudging my boots from bay to bay
Fishing line gripped in pruned hand
Looking through the small pools
Finding goldfish in a city of pavement