Two Cheers for the Plastic Colander

Two Cheers for the Plastic Colander

Bits of dirt and leaves wash away
in the cool spray of water, leaving
bright red strawberries, perfect
for shortcake with cream
or to freeze for a rhubarb pie

I will use the colander
to wash away worthless knowledge
the names of the seven dwarfs
how to solve quadratic equations
the capital of North Dakota
freeing up neurons for the what's-her-name
actor in Still Alice, the way to Safeway or
the name of my granddaughter's brand new
American Girl doll: Julie? Jennifer? Ginny?

I will paint each neuron a sign to hold up
YOUR PAYPAL PASSWORD IS LETHE
TURN LEFT ON BAXTER, RIGHT ON SAMSON
SIFT FLOUR BEFORE MEASURING
then walk down the streets of my mind
greeting each one and thanking them
for gliding me gracefully through another day

But I worry that my neurons are wrinkled
like raisons or dehydrated cranberries
exhausted from years of use, shriveled
into puny pieces that sweep easily
through the holes, fewer and fewer left
huddled in a small room in my mind
tossing one or two words between them
trying to avoid being doused
in a plastic colander