I had my arm looped around your shoulder
at Zub’s always thinking of infinity inside
gooey strands of fried mac and cheese bites–
now I’m thirty-four, scared of heart failure.
I stand at my desk at work on a foam pad
with bumps and ridges. Anything to keep
me active, though I read Bruce Lee died
at thirty-two. I don’t know how I did not
know that until now. If ignorance can be
counted in the days I have forgotten, my
respite won’t be remembered. Perhaps the
paper clips that stab memories together
aren’t so horribly misspoken, though I
speak without stopping more than I used to.
The highway through my windshield grime–
at night, when it’s raining– everything is
chance, or I need better glasses, or escape.
I look ahead and forget all that is behind
me, inconsiderate to the rearview lights
who are trying to guide me home.

(originally published in ZiN Daily, Winter 2024)