You keep ignoring the Post-it note
telling you to defrost the freezer.

The sight of the hardened
dollop of toothpaste

on the hardwood floor in the hall
is a comfort:

Out with it, damned
and captive white spot.

Your habit of meandering
from room to room,

rocking back and forth,
is another. No light shines

from the lamp you forget
to plug in again.

Stray blueberries roll beneath
the fridge, never to be retrieved.

You can’t recall where
you got that tiny notebook—

the one with mostly illegible
scribblings in your handwriting

on torn and crumpled pages,
discovered weeks later

under The Complete Works
of Emily Dickinson.

What do you mean by “fire
up the culture of keep going?”

It’s a comfort to give yourself
permission to release the need

to remember anything.
You have nursed the wounded

owl long enough. Let it fly.
You say you don’t keep everything.

Shelves of blank books filled
with contained chaos exist

to call you are a liar.

Still so many messages
left to thaw.