My memory is a frightening thing these days. (Did I say that already?)
"Come read this poem by Billy Collins," I just now said to Atticus.
"Another one?" he asked.
"Did I already have you read a Billy Collins poem this morning?"
by Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
(Read the whole thing here, at Poets.org.)
The Poetry Friday round up is at Write. Sketch. Repeat.
(Photo courtesy of FreeImages.com.)