In Defence of the Study of History

When I was a child, I knew a man

His name was Mister Forgetful.

And he lived in a hotel in upstate New York

In the second-best suite that they had.

Nobody knew where the money came from,

But his bills were always paid

And the staff always took good care of him;

He could only remember back three days.

We made it a point to have dinner every night

So that we could have a history together,

And I wouldn’t be just some kid

That he’d treated once to a meal.

Speaking with Mister Forgetful . . .

Everything he said was new,

And I learned more of simplicity from him

Than a lifetime of Tao meditations.

But he spent his life on a lonely rock

That was only three days wide

Surrounded by an abyss of I can’t know

With not even a name to sustain him.

Then, one night, he got a package;

A gift-wrapped box with a fine silk bow.

Here, was proof someone knew who he was.

Here, was proof someone cared.

His hands shook a little as he pulled loose the bow

He unwrapped his package in wonder

And when at last he’d folded the parchment away

The present was cold-wrought iron.

He opened the lid

Looked in

Blinked

And I waited, what clue was he seeing?

As he reached in, and pulled out

An old .45, with a scope

An address

A man’s photo

And a silencer.

I said, “Forgetful, don’t do it.”

He said, “This is all that I know!

And besides: in three days, I’ll forget.”

 “Well, that’s true, Mister Forgetful.

But if you do this

In three days you’ll be eating alone.”

 

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.