What Was His Name, Where Did We Eat?
Lately, an
old white guy’s ponytail,
that puny afterthought
dangling in a wisp
of longing
for the old days from a 65 year-old
cerebellum,
hirsute ornament born from nostalgia’s
waning thrusts
of vanity, an old nag’s ragged mane
worried
about being put out to pasture
is what my
memory feels like, so thin just blowing
in the wind from
thought to thought searching
for that
author’s name or where we ate pasta in Chicago,
like the
famous song by an artist I can’t quite recall
in an era
that us oldsters were rebellious children of,
when pony
tails shone robustly and thankfully much thicker,
more and
more a time well hidden from me these days,
an amnesia nascent somewhere
down inside last century’s
brain still blowin’ in that breeze like wishful threads of gray hair
hanging limply in the air are the words and names I search for,
brain still blowin’ in that breeze like wishful threads of gray hair
hanging limply in the air are the words and names I search for,
gyrating all
night long on the dance floor of tongue’s elusive tip
where I’ve
lost my contact lens, my girlfriend, even my ancient ponytail clip.
