I Forget

— Jerry Dyer

Whenever I’m reading a book,
I forget what the cover looks like.
My jaw becomes a mystery to me,
if for three days I fail to shave.
During the summer, I don’t remember
the gentle static of winter rain.

I sometimes still expect my first cat
to run to greet me at the door.
I remember only the apple scent
of my first girlfriend’s hair,
the ginger bangs, and her shoulder blades
working beneath my palms.

What was her name? I can’t recall.
When I am old, I will harvest
the solitude of empty mailboxes
in that cul-de-sac I call my soul.
If God ever did live in my heart,
his forwarding address is now unknown.

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