ABOUT MEMORY AND LACK THEREOF
A bet I made when I was ten, a game between the Reds and Cards. My team was hot. The Cards were not. But I never got my just award. The bum still owes me a pack of bubble gum. I won't bore you with the score, but I remember that and a whole lot more.
In my teens I had a girl named Shirl with skin like pearl, eyes of blue and hair bright red she said was real. It was, that's true, but the hair was swept from the barber's floor. I remember the dress she wore and a whole lot more, but that's a bore.
I was a virgin at twenty-one, By twenty-two I was a man with a list of conquests I can recite and guarantee most are right, but dames are dames and names are names and sex back then was just a game, a bore, no more, so I won't tell you anymore.
I confess that, yes, I invested in the bubble and wound up in double trouble, and I remember what it cost, The schlock stock that won, the ones that lost, the dogs, the dregs that had no legs, the teks, the dreck, what I kept turned cold, what I sold was gold, the same old story ten times told. I remember each decision with the memory of a homing pigeon. But you don't want to know how low stocks can go, To remember makes me cry. Since you know why, why should I tell you more? just a bore.
Back to the club where flubs rub shoulders, scratch heads and forget what they just read on the net, what to get and what to sell, what time to meet and on what street, a hot flame's name and telephone, your wedding date, the church, the place, the face of the bride who will be at your side, who asked who and when you say "I do" do you?
What happened yesterday? The day before? Where do I go tomorrow to borrow the money I spent today? Which is which and what is what and did it happen last December or July? I can't remember what I should remember, yet I can't forget what I should forget.