"Divided Attention" - Gregory de Rocher
It starts in your late forties
Fifties, sixties, or seventies.
Your car keys are not in their assigned shallow bowl
or your cell phone in your left shirt pocket
where it always is
So you retrace your late night movements
hoping to regain the "ah hah" that will bring back
order into your morning.
Or you are preparing breakfast
as you have for two or three or even fourscore years
and wonder as you confidently opened
the left cupboard door
what is was you needed among the array of objects
Staring back at you, blankly.
Or you are reminded in a flash
as you and your friends are guffawing over jokes
of an even funnier one to share when the one in progress
reaches its punch line and the laughter begins to subside.
The one you were bristling to tell has sunk
leaving not the least telltale ripple.
The drafts of forgetfulness,
cold and remorseless,
snatching the present
we no longer inhabit.