The Repeated Query

The flickering cursor, a tiny metronome

of my forgetting. Again, I type the phrase,

'how many ounces in a cup', a shame-faced

routine. The search bar, a digital tome

of my small, persistent gaps.

Predictive text offers it up, a silent jab:

it knows me, knows my failures, the old traps

my brain keeps setting. The recipe waits,

flour on the counter, the scale still blank.

It's not profound, this knowledge I can't bank,

just a minor fraying at the mind's fine gates.

But the fourth time this month, the same old plea,

it feels less like a search, more like a mirror

showing me the constant, quiet error

of what I choose to keep, and what escapes me.