I’ll point to the spot in memory
where all of this is stored
or where it was stored last time I checked.
Somewhere above the dresser
or near my shelf next to that photo,
unless I left it somewhere else.
See that’s the thing with memories
they’re never where I left them last.
But I can always find some other thought
tied to the book worn with turning,
or sewed to my favorite flannel
like an old button cracked with love.
Memories flutter around every well-used thing
like moths to an old flame.
Till the flame goes out and they all disperse
and I’m left searching for my keys.