I could easily see my mind sliding
away. I stare for an hour at cherry
tomatoes growing in a stranger’s
backyard, wonder how much water
these people have to give those
things, if they are ripe enough to eat.
I can’t grow anything. I’ve tried. Even
the plants they say you can’t kill,
I’ve killed. I don’t recognize faces
anymore. It used to be names I couldn’t
remember, but now it’s faces, too. If I
walk into you on the street, even if I
know you but it seems I don’t,
it’s because I don’t. Do not be offended.
Just help me find what used to be my
mind, when it was intact, whole, when it
could handle the news of the day. For now
I found an office chair in the alley which still
has some spring. You will find me rocking
back and forth, taking a memo. Look for it
in your inbox. It’s a warning. It’s a love letter.
It’s all I have left.