Forgotten
Is it simply forgotten
or not remembered?
My father coughs
through his days,
asking for answers
only his brother knows.
Some books are better
read from the end,
he says. I don’t know
what to do.
He tries to spell his name
but the letters elude him,
teetering between symbol
and thought and choice.
The chair tips over
when I lean too far back,
replacing memories
with hardwood
and a new bruise
coloring my thoughts.
This word, that one.
A face, the date.
Last Tuesday’s crumb.
The floor accepts us all.
* * *
“Forgotten” first appeared in ISACOUSTIC* in January 2018.
O at the Edges 
Reblogged this on Art, Music, Photography, Poetry and Quotations.
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Great write. Poignant and so beautifully penned.
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I was moved by this poem, so poignant and sad.
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As my brain “matures”, I get frustrated with waiting for recall to materialize … I’ve learned not to conclude I’ve “forgotten” … more a case of “misplaced” … given time (less than an hour usually, a few days sometimes) the wires upstairs link up and suddenly I say aloud the elusive name. It does seem like a chair tipping backwards … a bit of a thump on the noggin … an annoying game of sorts.
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