My future self’s a stranger to my brain,
the neuroscience tells us. I don’t know
me ten years hence, the analysts explain,
but I forgot the me of months ago.

My memory is good. I journalize
to ballast it and reinforce the view.
But bragging change was easy looks like lies –
three entries prove my cocky words untrue.

If I can’t recollect correctly now,
with flash card skills and repetition drills,
then what can I expect of careless friends?
Forgetting pain, romancing, I know how
nostalgia paves the pot holes, mops the spills,
and sticks us where our narrative extends.