by Roy White
Forget a secret if you don’t want it leaked.
Forget the thing you were going to say that would make everything all right, and tell yourself
all the people you wounded will
forget the things you wrote, or that you never called back.
Forget you have no pants on until you stand up to make your acceptance speech, and then
forget the dream.
Forget your kitten Panther that someone hanged from the monkey bars—
forget, too, your useless fantasy that he became a real panther and tore his tormentors into meat.
Forget the poem you’re trying not to imitate, or better yet
forget what you’ve stolen after you’ve stolen it.
Forget the Thurber cartoon and the Vermeer, the tight jeans and the puckered front of a t-shirt,
forget all the faces you won’t see again.
Forget coasting downhill on your bike and snaring a slicing Frisbee and most of all,
forget that you know that it’s pointless to try to
Forget what it was you came in here
for. Get what you paid
for. Get lost.
Roy White is a blind person who lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota with a lovely human and an affable lab mix. His work has appeared, or is about to, in Poetry, BOAAT, Glass, Tinderbox, and elsewhere, and he can be found on Twitter at @surrealroy.