PERFECT FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
Last night, just before I fell asleep, I thought of a poem. A beautiful poem. In it there was a man with brown eyes who spoke French: parfait, sensible, balle. I told myself I should get up and write it down, so I wouldn't forget. It seemed an important piece at the time, perhaps the one that would become my masterpiece, included in all the important literary anthologies. But I did not. Instead I remained in bed and fell asleep, thinking of all the important things I needed to do the next morning: fill the car up with gas, draft a living will, buy cake mix. Now I can remember only one word of the poem, that being "red." The rest of my beautiful red poem remains lost, like many other important things I once knew but now can't recall: the combination on my seventh grade hall locker, the sound of my first lover's voice, the smell of my grandmother's house. All of these things once lived, vibrant, waiting to become some grand inspiration, indicative of something familiar, passed from one mouth to another. Eventually they became idle: now a slick residue at the bottom of my brain-case; now collected at the stem; now a delicate structure; now a minor turn-of-phrase; now slithering down my back, a secret swelling in my sleep. It seems a shame somehow, to be left with nothing but red.