My locater-gene dysfunction
increases with my years, I think —
although I found this pen
to write this verse
and later I’ll transcribe.
I know where my computer is
though if it were a laptop
I’d likely wonder and I’d wander.

The worst is:
hiding places in the refrigerator.
I remember ice boxes of the “twenties”
but can’t seem to find the milk for lunch today.
I recall the ice man delivering with his tongs
but where is the ketchup for my hash?
The ice man lived on Railroad Ave.
in a town a thousand miles from here.
We have ice trays now.
I know where they are —
they stay in place.
I can handle that.
But so many things move around
after the door is shut
and the light goes off.

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