Conversation with the Muse of Old Age

... Oh, I believe them, darling, when they say
Your mother's maiden name was Mnemosyne.
Was it at her or your twin sister's funeral -
'Fibby', to me, but I mean Fantasy's -
That I was stricken not with grief but fleas?
She was the more admired,
I flirted with her till of her tales too tall,
Charm too cosmetic, I grew sick and tired
And you, Amnesia, became my one and all.

Yes, still the relics of a life encumber
My house, wild archive, jumbled head with lumber.
The more you visit me, the less I care
When I can't find that notebook entry anywhere:
If lost, mislaid, it wasn't worth the search.
Trivia it is that leave us in the lurch,
...