I know everything
not worth knowing.
Like the proper spelling of mackerel,
which is useless to me
because I will never write it.
Except once.
In this poem.
My brain cells are crammed with
phone numbers,
old math equations,
Beatles trivia,
one hundred "great thoughts"
Mr. Wetherell made me memorize in tenth grade.
If it's redundant, useless, and otherwise
completely irrelevant to daily life,
I'm bound to know it.
My husband (he says)
knows nothing that is
not worth knowing.
His brain cells are emptier.
He doesn't have to know, of course,
because if he wonders, he can always
ask me.
For instance,
"where are my shoes?"
"what does deleterious mean?"
"what's the name of that song?"
"how do you spell mackerel?"
(that's twice)
Maybe I think that if I hold tight
to the vestiges of life before motherhood
I will not lose myself completely.
Or maybe I think, if I remember enough details,
I will finally write a poem worth reading.
Well, it won't be this one.
M-A-C-K-E....
1 comment:
So i tried to post twice on this one and so now I have forgotten what I was going to say...but it was something like this: you are one of by best resources also and without the assistance of Shaunna the food at our house would still be the same as it has always been. Thanks for knowing what you know about food, music, and spelling...wherelse am I supposed to find out?
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