Mnemosyne Forgets

The long bowed wood left marks on the hardwood floor,

so we tried to keep the rocker on a rug.

It didn't work and every house would have these streaks

where our rocking had stripped wax off.

Memory is a hesitant thing,

a thing best left on shelves for rainy days.

What troubles me is remembering,

remembering August ninth-

nineteen ninety five.

A boundary day, a before and after day.

He wasn't just a guitar player missing the upper bird digits of his wing-ed finger.

He wasn't just a singer, who often strayed off key.

I struggle to write what he was, and still is,

some 16 years later as I remember remembering.

That day was long neglected friendship calling just to see how I was holding up,

sorting through dated and venued bootlegs,

listening to over-mixed studio CDs,

holding my two black dogs and rocking and crying,

and rocking and crying.

Once a year we made a trip,

made arrangements for inside.

Locking knowing eyes with others

--he forgot a verse or teased the next song with a chord.

The whirling line of solo dancers in the breezeway

--patched long skirts drawing breath,

the lights synced with every song,

the grilled cheese, sugar cubes and cheap beers

the after-concert parking lot.

Seeing the Dead live made me feel like I belonged,

like these freaks had some sort place for me.

When Jerry Garcia died in rehab,

I remember a part of me dying too.

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