Bipolar Star

Alone in the planetarium of memory, you scan the lights inside your cranial dome… a firmament of memories light-years off.

Your broken mind tries hard to weave inchoate memories into a tale the ones you love might follow.

But the random memories don’t cohere, no constellations in your sky – a milky way, inchoate fog of tiny lights.

I listen earnestly, pretend to understand.

How can I ever help you?

Can someone tell me how?

• Bill Schubart