So my dad thinks
That the holes/blanks in my memory
Are selective/concious/intentional
Meaning that I’ve chosen to say/lie that
“I don’t remember that”
Just to hurt/stab/slap/injure/poke someone else
I remember our phone number from when I was in Junior High
641-8364
I watched a movie
Where the singular tragedy was a memory
That played like a kodachrome flashback
All the time
My events/parties/tragedies merely walk into the shadows
Where it’s too dark to watch them replay
But sometimes I can catch
A whiff of the smell that was there
But, I’ve never found a way
To mark a smell on a calendar…