Daily Poem: April 14

It’s a human right



The story begins sitting in the tub
with a foot rinse.

You think you forget something,
like where you live,
even though you haven’t ventured beyond the back patio
for the better part of a year.

Is there good news? The slam of the butcher’s block
on the kitchen table?

You wander your galaxy, kicking stones, thumbing
through the arbitrary plant life
of your little garden, recalling in flashes
the indomitable faces of strangers.

It’s a human right to forget the things that happened to us.
But this too is suspended by strings.