No Title

Giltrap’s earworm instrumental is on the radio

(ha, wifi-wireless, a chip in a tiny, squat cylinder).

What’s the title? Something meaningless,

I think,

              some kind of song?

                                               Funny, since there are no words.

I have the context, the milieu, the incidental

smells and tastes of then-and-ago.

Other sounds from the long-gone transistor:

you know,

                   pseudo-punk bands,

                                                         middle-class rebels in plastic.

It’s there and not there, not on the tip,

but behind my tongue, under my memory

in the dark parts of the brain: where,

they say,

                          the amyloids lurk

                                                               to knot your memory in tangles.