Sometimes I forget where
I put things. Sometimes

I forget what those things
Are. I think maybe labels

Would help: cat, ice cube,
Daughter #2, French

Horn, gorilla suit . . .
But it always
Seems to never work. The doctor

Has on his wall a blueprint
Of my bones, or someone's bones,

Each one labeled and they all
Fit together, each in its place,

And there, within the ribs, is room
To store everything that matters:

Asparagus, wife, saber
Saw, gin, pain . . .
If you don't

Know where everything
Is, how do you know

Where you are? How do you
Know anything? You might

Be lost, your heart might deflate,
Your spine might collapse—well,

One day they will—, but your problems
Aren't mine. I keep track of what

I can and try to keep it safe,
But my skin, the skin that wraps me up

Tight and encages the rib cage
And knows car keys from catamaran,

Even it can't keep in every
Thing that makes me, me.