Friday, January 18, 2013


    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.