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The Art of Forgetting
by Robert Manaster

In late winter,
There's a piney stiffness.
Winds have dozed off.
Untouched, the frozen
Moonlit backyard
As barren as rows
And rows of the high-rise
Windows in my thought.
Back inside
My cluttered room—
Books and clothes
Strewn about the floor—
I wait for your response.
What will you propose?
For love, I no longer
Know how to hope.
What rhythms disclosed
By my key-touches
Are sterile without your
Addressing them.
I'm exposed, undone,
     Ignored. How much,
How much longer.
Like a child told
To keep in line,
I cannot stay still
In thought— I compose
In your absence.
Surely, you will
Forget me,
Forget my own
     Onrushing response.

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