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?