I thought I remembered it.
It had descended out of my hardcover novel the night before
when I opened it for my thirty minutes of nightly reading.
Then it was gliding down to the floor, noiseless and static.
I couldn’t have forgotten it.

I thought I remembered it
when I opened my eyes, in my first glimpse of daylight,
its white, wrinkled figure, still lying dead on the ground, waiting in the mute sunlight.
I couldn’t have forgotten it.

I thought I remembered it.
At breakfast, scrubbing off the maple syrup splotched all over it.
Pancakes and bacon, and seeing it through my translucent orange juice glass.
I couldn’t have forgotten it.

I thought I remembered it,
crepitating deep in my cyan messenger bag
under all my folders, notebooks, and binders.
I couldn’t have forgotten it.

So you see teacher, I thought I remembered it.
But it is not in my bag, folders, notebooks, or binders.
I’m sorry, teach, I do not have my homework.
I have forgotten it.