The Memory Thief

I sit down in the break room,
seven-and-a-half months along,
having just worked my eightieth hour.
I gaze up at the clock,
stark in black and white,
numbers in a circle,
not in a line.
It starts to jump back and forth,
spinning 50,000 shades of grey.
I am dizzy, rooted to the chair;
something is wrong.
I have no thirst,
not even an ounce an hour, I desire.
A girl I know comes in and asks, “What’s the matter?”
“I feel like I’m on a carousel,” I say,
and she asks who she can call,
but I left my cell at home.
I just moved,
I cannot remember my husband’s number,
I cannot remember my mother’s—
I cannot remember at all.
All my information,
my life,
is in that little device.
I’ve lost the ability to recollect.
My mind isn’t Google,
but a scramble–
fragmented and frayed,
the simplest things forgotten.
I did not use my memory,
and lost it when I needed it most.