March 26, 2010In Memory of His MemoryDavid Wagoner

It was good for the alphabet, for the facts of arithmetic,

and the capitals of states. They froze into place somewhere

behind a piece of his mind. In speech class and debate

his mind’s eye reproduced whole streams of words

that had rattled out of the mouths of orators,

but not exactly by heart. That was for poems.

He could memorize any lyrics, no matter how bad,

with the ease of a quick study shaking backstage

and later could remember the names of the faces

of students arranged in rows of rows and call them

back to be recognized or counted absent.

He could think, even think and think and then rename

and remember what it was he should have done

when he hadn’t done anything in forgettable moments

like this one now. We are gathered here to pay

our last respects to an absentee, whose name

you can find somewhere in your programs. He had something

to do and apparently did it or we wouldn’t be here.

I’m speaking now to some memorable purpose

or other, and you, on yours, are sitting there.