GIVE ME JUST A MINUTE The room blurs. I can't think. An angel of forgetting offers to tell more than I'm allowed to know: the reasons behind the excuses, how nothing got done, etc. I reach for the bag he carries containing all the colors of eyes and look for my favorites. He waits. I'm thinking anything he says he's making up. I need to concentrate or I'll regret. Free of health problems, free of security problems, free to leave. The story of our times could be written by people like me, survivors of a talk with this angel. I know it all depends on the questions. I'm breathing deep, thinking exile? murder? where to begin? He's restless, picks up a trumpet and plays notes randomly. Another westside resident goes by, moving further west. I wave, forgetting his name. Or did we ever meet? The angel naps.