One thing at a time was not enough to remember.
Today through last August dates the papers, cornered
by legal pad pages tiling beige carpet with ‘to do’, as
the sad, damning bills stack unopened, but potent.
Don’t the bottles pile up too, with glinting glass fuzzed madrugadas
beside the porcelain sink blinking pristine dust.
One really important post-it is noted on neon pink.
Sober on their shelves, supporting photos taken somewhere,
are the books that were meant to have been finished at least three months ago.
So flip through addresses still shiny bound (just found)
licking searching fingers bowed red and green with yarn,
because somewhere behind the bed, or the couch, or the fridge,
will be the keys jangling recollection.