Du Temps Perdu

He had seen, for the first time,
The top of the small hill
Lush, in its own way,
With yellow and green flowers,
Names escaping him,
Like most memories
He wished would return,
A trip to the laundromat,
A friend’s memorial service,
Familiar as the moon
He thought he remembered
Last Thursday
When he put his laundered socks
Into the top drawer
And glanced out the window,
Or was it emptying the dishwasher
After closing the kitchen window
To catch a quick glimpse
Of the moon’s cradle,
Reminding him of how
Easy it was, once,
To recall anything.


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