It might be useful. I might
forget to be terrified of dogs
not bolt, sour-mouthed with fear,
when next door’s alsatian lunges
at the gate. I’d call him good boy,
meaning it, lean in to scratch his ear.
It might be magical, books I know
by heart growing mysterious as
unopened gifts. And if I can’t recall
disliking thrillers, science fiction,
will I tumble into marvels when
I forget what I prefer and read them all?
What if I forget my fear of flying,
catch the headiness of airports, wine
before breakfast, forgetting I disapprove?
What if, decanted into Barcelona, I chat
to everyone, savour paella, forgetting
I don’t speak Spanish, don’t like foreign food?
It might be extraordinary,
a second chance.
Imagine leaping up joyously
every time the music started
having forgotten to care what people think
having forgotten I don’t know how to dance.