First, bits of things begin to go,
a swatch of sound here, another there
like condensation in the mirror,
as you squint to see your face.
Students you ask to repeat themselves,
you knowing they can’t pronounce a thing,
knowing your wife is just talking to herself
only sometimes and mouth somewhere else,
assuming you’ll pick it up, but you don’t,
and give out with a nod, a dumbshow of
apprehension to hide the panic.
But she’s not worried because you tell her
the first alto is Benny Carter, now ninety six,
the next is Johnny Hodges, and the last, Bird.
But you know you’ve memorized all that.
Still, you can recognize Szigetti on violin
and Bartok on piano, but this knowledge, too,
comes with the bacon grease pops of the remastered 78s,
but imperfections can’t be separated from art anyway.
And you can hear the bright, enameled sound of her laugh,
so who really cares about the rest?

In the second, so much simpler,
someone’s taken an eraser to the board
and you can just make out blurs and foggy smears
but it’s not exactly a palimpsest of sounds
and memory doesn’t help you here.
And you know later, late at night when
you’re asleep someone will come in with a pail
of dirty water and a wet rag and begin
to wipe it all away.