Sunday Poem: Memory

When I retired, a delicious month was spent clearing shelves and drawers of years of accumulated documents. Then came the books. Some were kept, some given away, and a handful put up on Amazon, where they’ve languished ever since. So to draw attention to these amazing offers, I’m writing a poem to accompany them.

I said to my mate, “What makes us human?

He said to me, “I haven’t a clue, man.

Is it our brain, our amazing memory,

Or else our final rest, a cemetery?”

I said to him, “You mean dead and gone? Why?

Surely all creatures on earth have to die?”

“But only we know – that makes us human.”

I said to him, “Wow! That could be true, man.”

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