I'm late for St. Brigid's poetry recitation

but I love this idea, even thought it's fallen by the wayside in most parts of the world.

Some table talk, at lunch, of memory,
the anecdotal hypnotist who could
unlock the nursery. Not babyhood
occurred to me, but two weeks buried by

the next five years. That's when I should have made
poems each extraordinary day,
and I could read them now and brush away
the dust accrued over a half-decade,

and I'd remember everything we said
when we thought we were saying everything.
We did, I guess, what everybody does,
if I were better at remembering.
Sometimes I wonder who I thought I was,
And who on earth I thought was in my bed.

- Marilyn Hacker, from the Regents Park Sonnets