Memory

In essence, what I remember is outrightly
random
Sometimes that is hideous, disgusting, monstrous
Other times sweet, extra salty fries, summer strawberries

Who knows why I think so often of a client who said
“No, no, take care I’ll talk to your friends [uh, uhm, colleagues]”
Why do I remember so fondly, that I can almost touch,
the texture of the wallet I gifted randomly to a first boyfriend?

Memory is a child’s play, his trick up the sleeve,
that everyone is too adult to catch, to relish, to claim
Why else would it be that you so stupidly revisit,
a memory of a random September no-event afternoon?

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Rochi Zalani
Rochi is a staff writer at Elite Content Marketer who relishes fresh poetry. She talks about books, poems and the troubles of everyday life on her website.
If you believe there is nothing that cannot be cured by some Mary Oliver poetry or a F.R.I.E.N.D.S episode, subscribe to her weekly newsletter

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