Memory* Poem by Morgan Michaels

In just a bit I'll remember what I forgot.
Never doubt it. I, myself, do not.
(And while we await synapse, I'll just jot down this poem)
for that's the way of memory, long and short,
bundling concept with its opposite, silence with sound,
rumor, honestly heard, larded with cold fact;
black with white, pain with anodyne,
fair with foul, whether you like it or not,
all in the cryptic keep of the temporal lobe-
shelf-packed in like books, pleased to be plumbed,
(easier said than done, as the present case shows)
But don't fret the lapse, no. What's really critical
is how well you use the time till memory, waiting
in the wings, cued, appears onstage.
Yeah- how you use it- time, till memory falls in.
The capital, by the way, of New Jersey is...Jersey City.