A Photo Of Azaleas

Aging is embarrassing; You can't remember which lover You told which secret to, And you suspect they know why It wasn't them, you sent the photo of Azaleas to And that it was yet someone else Sampled your notorious cinnamon rolls, all those years ago. They are everywhere and nowhere; Memory has forgotten their wrinkle, There is no hastily scribbled cheat sheet Hidden up your sleeve now; You, who've grown too old for school And too old to remember, apparently. In self defense, you stop bringing things up And when others do, you scratch absently At your arm, worry small holes Into stretchy knit hems; Cough, clear your throat, Change the subject to anything, Anything at all- No, not that! Daily living is become a febrile mine field Filled with small tripping stones Deployed deviously, to trip you up, And sometimes, you detour so many times In a day, an hour, that you forget Which trail you were trying to avoid And wind up there, by default, Because whatever nightblind memory's left to you Is still good at doing just that. So that on some days, it all becomes too much, And then you throw your arms up in the air, exasperated And are heard to proclaim then That you are old now, and can't be expected To remember everything anymore. And if smug smiles greet your words, You can always squint, And pretend that you can't see their faces.