Fickle Memory
Neva Hamilton

Memory is an old photograph:
Sepia people wither and curl.

Memory is an old phonograph:
Artificial voices rustle and crackle.

Granny pats her cotton-candy hair
And rubs her rusty brow.

She plucks my sleeve and asks,
"Can someone fix my churn? Does anyone know how?"

I smile and nod.
What can I say?

You're set aside before you're laid to rest.
Be glad memory is fickle.