It seems to me my memory’s not bad
But only my facility to call
And recollect impressions that I’ve had,
Now all too safely stashed behind a wall.
The data’s there, I’m sure, because too late
For my immediate need it reappears
From where it hid in a suspended state:
The sun comes out—my mental fog bank clears.
Ironically, the less I try to haul
It up, but just relax—then I recall.