Back when I knew what I don’t know now
A four barrel carb could practically rebuild itself,
instructions followed, and such.
Drop a tranny and replace it, all in one morning,
because the pocketbook demands it.
Doing something once doesn’t mean
I know how to do it. But I did it.
Just like sliding headfirst down the road beside my motorcycle
didn’t foster a desire to try doing it again.
Then there’s breaking a leg. Wouldn’t want to do that again,
but the next time probably would be easier.
What was that poem I wrote yesterday?
Lines blur between here and there, then and now.
Are the brain cells holding those lessons, those memories,
dead and gone, or are they just waiting to haunt me in dementia?
Image source: hotrod.com