ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
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.