You don’t mind, do you?
I must get a notebook
down here. I keep losing track
of the endless index cards
I find in the mornings, struggling
to decipher black ink scrawled
to remember what I may forget.
I want to write a poem

about June and how I remember,
June 10, the date I married first spouse
and how you remember July 7, the date
you divorced yours and I just shushed
you in my haste to jot these words
that deserve more than
these cramped index cards.

At least I got my poem for tomorrow.