Future Storms

Things get in the way
because I am no fan of memory.
The taste of Crest on a spoon is
all minty and metallic. A summer day
is yawning before me. Deep in the city
the strangle of humidity is a dirty pink
fist around my neck. I try to make myself
dizzy when I reach into the fridge for
something old. If I spin around too fast, I
stagger across the living room with white spots
advertised behind my eyes. I'm here for you.
You might not know that.