Full Of Blood, And Irrelevant
If memory had fingers, it would wring
from me each forgettable day we shared.
The double-date drive to Plum Island
in the pouring rain, windows fogged
like shower glass. I'd listen now to your
every laugh. That Sunday morning,
March, repairing a botched crossword
while our clothes rolled in the laundromat's
mechanical song. What shirt were you
wearing? How long was your hair then?
A year in retrospect is a checked list
written in disappearing ink and clutched
in a tight fist. Pick up shampoo. Take out
trash. Replace washer in kitchen sink.
How many hours did we pass together?
Given the chance to do it over, would we
do it the same way? And if memory
did have fingers and those fingers formed
a fist, would our times shine out,
red as rubies, full of blood, and irrelevant?