The Third Thing
Why can’t I ever remember the third thing in a series?
My wife told me to bring three things
to the party and I can’t remember the third thing.
I was supposed to bring the diaper bag,
and the blaahhh.
What was it? What the hell?
I can never remember.
Where does it go?
Must be a problem with my input network.
The information receptors are only running
at 40% functionality since those mental resources
are being routed to more important
tasks like remembering passwords and kids’ birth dates.
Or maybe it’s a faulty filing system in my head.
The misfiring floret of neurons is like a file clerk
that has died at his desk
and his assignments have piled up in disarray
and no one’s coming behind him
to put everything where it belongs.
I’m a malfunctioning Task Machine,
the Vonnegutian 3000 way past its warranty.
Two things are fine. Three things are just too much.
Crosby, Stills and hhmmm
Earth, Wind and guuuh
Maybe it’s ADD or an early sign of dementia?
Or maybe remembering two things is good enough
and my brain is automatically
sorting the items and putting the least important
thing at the end.
But in the wee hours, the third thing comes dancing
across the stage in my mind with jazz hands–
Here I am!! How could you forget?
It’s me, the new camera! Of course you need me at the party, dummy.
Then it gloats and I feel stupid and shown up
by a harmless piece of data.
I hope the third thing is never so important
that its omission is life or death–
never a time when I’m engulfed in flame
and I stop
squint blankly up into space,
waiting for the connection
that never comes.