Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness is shame in gold bold letters. Written on the skin of that onion, the first of many editions across the spine of each memory of some long forgotten book. My tomb made of racks, must number in the thousands. I no longer have a room for, inside my head. Verse is never free, I have misplaced. I must have, I must have waited to long to have my daughter. Her 'Questions' once so simple, I remember have no answer.Lost against, the tide of time and as such I am but sand. Waiting to reform that lump of clay some soft red rocks. I remember that as the deep blood red southern brick my aching back stood for so long to rests against. How do I keep up with her now, every things so fast even if I remembered how to ride one. To think at my age I would even attempt such a feat as that. My age, at my age no such thing as having a leg up on any thing, much less a twin of her bicycle or roller skates. I have tried to explain how a hip works, but I can not remember, where she came from. She just is and pink, pink polka dots her black dress. And a good helper she has turned out to be. She remembers things, I would have never thought of writing down.