I crack the skull like an egg
and peel back white plaster covering pink play dough,
finding eighty seasons stored in a human coconut now shaved and split,
a treasure chest opened, inviting exploration within.
Gathering tools I delve in, uncovering memories of a youth lived,
scooping out blueberry ice cream with a ladle
and dropping it onto the table
like the man dissected once dropped his onto the floor;
A glimpse of a day spent on Blackpool pier forty seasons ago.
Plucking images of childhood friends and enemies,
family members and snowy Christmases,
first gig, first kiss, last night and every night before.
Funerals and fun fairs,
equations and embarrassments,
long walks and short talks,
books read and records played,
The first listen of Déjà Entendu;
watching Pulp Fiction at thirteen and then fourteen, déjà vu.
All instances lost in lobes and spread across hemispheres,
strewn like a photo album ripped down the middle,
scattered across the surgery of reality
and the attic of the mind where they’d been stored;
Forgotten until someone digs them out to be explored
during a lazy afternoon or an evening study,
answering the questions offered without pause when picked.