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,

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.