The Last Word (A Poem)

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Yesterday is Memory’s secretary.
Yesterday is its editor
Whiting out life’s drivel
But Today is Memory’s predator.

Memory rents storage space
From a temperamental landlord: the Soul.
But Today selectively reaches into
That big bottomless bowl.

Often with Truth,
Memory is holding hands.
But most of the time
They have different plans.

Now
says to Then
“Yes
“I do remember when.”

Then says
“That’s not how it was, kid!”
Now says
“What matter if a Didn’t becomes a Did?”

Memory is always on its toes
Wherefrom come one thousand sparks?
Who really knows?

The nose is Memory’s sentinel:
A certain smell recalls 1959
Sounds of music are
Encrusted on Memory’s spine.

When all the Yesterdays meet
It’s either swim or sink
But Memory’s blueprint
Is written in erasable ink.

It is everything ever (or never)
Said, done or heard
But Today is Memory’s mouthpiece
And always has the last word.
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