I wear a headband of police tape.
My brain is a crime scene.
Sometimes I say what I don’t think
or think what I don’t mean.
My memory’s a jukebox
full of skipping forty-fives.
Too many tunes, too many tracks,
tied to so many lives.
Awake all night, plagued by my plight,
surrendering by dawn,
I rise at noon, aware that soon
the day is almost gone.
I know that aging’s not a crime,
but it could be much cleaner.
It’s surely not a felony,
perhaps just misdemeanor.