Remembering receives a new definition
each year, each year we grow older
as our numbers change
as our figures fade
as our hands fly further
from our mother’s;
hands are for lovers
now.
Memories are stripped,
constructed suddenly
from ideas, from education,
no longer genuine
as logic takes precedence,
blurring the edges.
Childhood is obviously
the reason you can’t sustain
as an adult.
Or so they tell you.
Welcome to the “good times,”
No picture books to flip,
puzzles to arrange,
just
taxes, bills, magazines,
thrust onto us
so swiftly
by whoever made the rule
that imagination dies
as soon as the clock
starts ticking.