Temporary Memory

The cursor blinks. A rhythmic,

hollow demand.

The Formica is cold beneath my wrists

and the coffee I spilled ten minutes ago

is a dark, sticky lake.

I am typing the name of my street

for the thousandth time,

but the five digits at the end

have dissolved again.

Is it a four? A five?

The phone screen glows, a rectangle

of sharp, electric blue

shining in the brown spill.

I search for the truth of where I live

like a stranger checking the map.