are there no new old memories left

are there no new old memories left,

or is this sense I’m shuffling a dog-eared deck

with more cards slipping away by the day

actually incorrect and in fact

this is prestidigitation I’m engaged in,

a masterful mirage concocted for myself

to keep from seeing the treasure trove I’ve secreted away

not behind my back but in plain sight:

an audience of memories so vast but in the dark

it’s like the submerged part of an iceberg

bringing me to my knees with applause

for the attention I give to the salient tip

that I incorrectly credit with comprising

all my life’s important moments on its own?

the outlines of our lives are defined by

all the parts that humbly step back into the shadows,

tacitly endorsing the through line we draw with a few rough strokes

so that we can just get on with the show.