All of the spaces
in your head
are filled
with bags and boxes.
Heaped with old Christmases,
that pet hamster,
Your second kiss
with that old girlfriend.
You're getting old
and the walkways
and corridors
are getting tight.
Hard to move.
Hard to think.
You attempt to purge.
But those old memories
linger.
They drag behind you.
An arthritic dog.
Laborious, painful, faithful.
So you take them back.
Reorganize them,
put them on a high shelf,
because that's all
that you can do.
2 comments:
This is just about the old memories that we carry with us, even if we don't want them or need them.
I'm glad you pointed back towards this poem over coffee, Chris. It's expertly crafted, from that kiss from an old girlfriend to the tightening corridors to the arthritic dog to the high shelf. The seemingly disparate images all coalesce into one in this poem about those memories that we cannot throwaway. I love the metaphor of the arthritic dog, and really, I love the final stanza as a whole. This idea that we must surrender to our own memories is fascinating!
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