Keeps on Slippin'

Time:

There are places things go to be forgot—
the tip of your tongue, the back of your mind—
like retirement colonies (the Linger
Longer Mobile Home Park), like the bridges
suicides spurn, like the last spot 

you remember seeing your car keys.
One of them is memory, city of ghosts.
We have catch phrases for them, but they're still
uncaught. Storage is easy and retrieval
hard, but no salesman tells you this 

because the product bought you long ago.
Me too. We're like the perfume in a room
a woman left yesterday for the last
time. We're here. We're stale but sensible.
We need somebody to remember us. 

William Matthews.