Momentary Memory

Momentary Memory

We possess momentary memory,
memory with an expiration date,
but we can’t always remember
how to activate it. We use it
when checking into hotels,
holding onto the number of
of our room for a week, ten days,
1341, written in black marker
on a white sleeve by the girl
behind the desk in the lobby,
shiny countertops and plants
in terracotta pots. 1341, coded
temporarily into the keycard.
When we return to the room
late in the evening of the first
or second night, we remember
which room is ours by picturing
the number in her handwriting,
the ones capped by little pennants,
sailboat for a four. Ten minutes
after we check out, the number
is gone. We give it up without
a fight. Names of interviewers
who have spoken to us about jobs
we were never hired for. License
plate numbers from states that
we used to reside in. Recipes
for cakes we baked twice in
five years. We let these trinkets
go, feel no loss within us
when they are gone. We never
go looking for them, as we do
those things we refuse to let
evaporate. We miss the thing,
and our clear memory of it.