Forget Me Nots

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Forget Me Nots

At my age, memory
becomes
a codger’s crowded

mantle. Ball jars
brim
with marbles—

slags, agates,
patches,
swirls of oxblood

in milky white,
crystals
pocked and rough

as the cratered moon.
Castoff
utility insulators

form like men in
God’s
reunion regiment

of afterthought
blue.
The vintage ceramic

planter, Little Miss
Muffet,
morphs into desk supply—

pen and pencil
catchall,
notes and Post-its

nearby—but a long-legged
spider
already crawls

the fading Miss’s
yellow
dress, her heart-shaped

mouth an open
glyph
of blindsided surprise.

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