Connie Sue,

I try to remember which New Yorker I used to crumble up the ganja inside.  The portrait of a Black man on the recto page.  At least another pipeful there in the gutter.  Short term memory loss or just too focused somewhere else?  An article I got bored with.  I was listening to the rain.  The downpipe from the gutter spout is gone; that sound tells me volume.  Once I re-remember something, I won’t forget it.  Years later—total recall, like stars in the firmament.      Why does that weekend in Salem keep repeating?  We weren’t married yet. You danced in the pub with the man in the wheelchair.  I even remember where I parked the car and the old-cigar smell of our smoker’s hotel room, the name of the cab driver—Ken—who got lost.  There is an album of those old mental newsreels of you.  They honor your memory by refusing to fade.

2 thoughts on “Connie Sue,

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