I can’t remember my password,
or even ever my user Id.
My circumstances are awkward.
Google doesn’t remember me,
and I can’t recall myself.

All around are remnants of my past.
But, I don’t know where I began,
or the places I went to last.
Like two phrases without an ampersand,
I live my life disjunctive.

My memory once was like a book,
and the world was like its shelf.
Subtle amnesia is a veiled crook,
and I have thieved myself,
as if myself is not who I am.

There are no mnemonics
where there is no memory.
No worn or simple recall tricks
where all of life is a mystery
without mirrors upon which to reflect.

So I sit, hands clasped in my lap,
having no recollection of my way home
without a routed chart or map
and unsure of days to come,
having no yesterdays and only dim tomorrows.

One thought on “The Thief Amnesia by Edward Pontacoloni

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