Linda C. Anger

There is little room left
in this brain after all these
years of memorizing
numbers, faces, song lyrics
and how to get from here to there;

everything cracks given enough
time - words or measurements
ooze out unseen, unheard,
the pocket where they were kept
shrivels, or is filled with something

else. Just yesterday, making your
favorite bread, when the dough was
flat and dense two hours on, I found
the thin thread of habit - adding the yeast
into the flour -

dangling just below my ear.
I tucked it back inside for
recall the next time, wondering
how soon that will be, and how wide
the crack will grow.