I don’t know their names or gender
or whether they even have a gender.
I forget they’re even there like I forget
a name, a fact, a necessary detail.
I only have to wonder aloud and then
move on to another thought when I feel
a little tap on my shoulder or sense
the presence of a calm being behind me
and there he is, or she, or it, handing me
a folder wrapped in a metaphor containing
the datum I couldn’t bring to mind
that short time ago. Then I can go on living,
assured that my mind still works, that the guys
in there have not run off to serve a younger
or more facile mind, that they’re with me still
in their khaki pants, buttoned-down shirts
and wire-rimmed glasses, poised to run
to the file box where they know just where
to find my username and password, the place
where we took that photo with the sea crashing
behind us, or the name of that actor, you know,
the guy who starred in that movie with that
actress, you know, the pretty one with the wide
smile and the shining teeth.

© by Tamara Madison.
Used with the author’s permission.