the archeology of memory

sifting the sands

for old coins

and house keys

mushroom clouds

and marshall dillon

phantom verandas,

stairways leading

to homestead houses

lost to fires and termites.

the tree that had to be

right here where we're

standing but somehow isn't.

the smooth face

of that girl whose

name escapes me

it was there just

a moment ago

before it fled

and hid somewhere

in the maze of neurons

teasing, peekaboo

i see you,

now you see me

now you don't

it started with a 'd'

i think, or was that a 'b'?

i can see her standing there,

fiddling with her hair

in that endearing way

tucking it behind her ear

and it always smelt

of coconut shampoo.

why is she,

'b' or 'd' or was it 'p'?

standing on that stairway,

lost, displaced

by what gilligan said

to the skipper or

the bore and stroke

of a '67 ferrari gtb?

that oak atop

chickenfoot road

hasn't changed

these fifty years,

it's laughing, foolish man

lost your memory

along with your

graying hair.