I’m dreadful sorry, Bob,
for never remembering your name
from one time to the next.
I may have told you my name seven times
before I recognized the disgust in your eyes
with each subsequent introduction.
I stopped asking after a while, Steve,
since it clearly wasn’t doing any good
in getting to know you and anyway,
the damage had already been done.

I should have made a stronger effort.
I could have tried mnemonics.
I would have stenciled it on my forearm
if I weren’t Jewish
and had ever considered it.

Hank, I did you a disservice,
treating you as less memorable
than you no doubt were.
You deserved more attention and respect from me,
I’m certain.
I could have invested enough
in your identity
so that, even all these years later,
after constant repetition and information-collection,
I should finally be able to put together
who the hell you are,
but still: nothing.

Anyway, sorry.