-Notes From Any Committee-
But our memories are like
our hands.
Jammed in pockets,
fidgety.
Empty more often than
…where did I put my pen?
Phalanges
protrude only so far from
our palms. We can’t
reach
so, we ball our crocuses
until our wrists turn blotchy.
We unclench snow.
It is like we had to scratch
a thaw and instead
we fondled distractedly
all along.
There, on the table is
the frenetic Sun:
Like a one-dimensional
trope in a poem that mentions seasons.
It has said only half
a sent…
and the chairs squeak,
they all lean back
and didder.
Some folded,
some grab handkerchiefs,
adjust glasses, pick noses.
The meeting is over.
Mittens are warmer,
but they say gloves give
you more motion.
The wind applauds and
slaps. We have made progress:
I found my pen.
