I always forget who lives

in my city.

No comment on them —

my memory’s bad.

Or good

for certain things.

Like faces.

Or items

on a grocery list.

Or the precise feelings
 
a book produced

in me once,

although perhaps not

its phrases or ideas.

But people, you

lovely impenetrables,

too often I forget

you exist.

I don’t find it hard

to reach out to you

in moments —

to recognize

your flesh and flutter

as mine.

Still, the grocery

list lengthens.

Somewhere

a party commences.

It occurs to me

I store a vast reserve

of sympathy for myself

inside myself.

I don’t know whether

this is a triumph

of compassion or greed

but I guard it like passion

or grief.