The doctor or psychiatrist
would refer to synapses
but my analog mind
sees the intricate cogged wheels
of a fine watch
or the heavy wooden machine works
of a grist mill.

Age permits me to view the gears
of my own memoy as rusty and blunted
or worn away by use and years
missing teeth like a broken comb.

Instead of a misfire, it is cogs I think of
when I see the lovely woman who lives on my floor.
She has two grandchildren, moved here from Phoenix,
loves her cat, Blanche, and used to edit books.

But, damn, what is her name?

Poetry Monday