Start early as this is no place to be
after dark. And start small. Too large a task,
tackling the whole convoluted chaos
of 100 trillion synapses grown
dusty, tangled, clogged will overwhelm
and defeat the best intentions. Pick one
narrow fold of your cerebellum, say,
and marie kondo it until it gleams
with joy (or something like). Practice the art
of folding and re-folding. Know that neat-
ness clarifies. Practice forgetfulness,
discarding, purging. Take out an old en-
velope that’s lost its letter, the bills
already paid, receipts, and all the pens
but two and say goodbye. Take next the keys
of uncertain origin and lock. Toss
them and don’t look back. Feel it? A lightness
and balance coming back. An easy flow.
Do it. Just tidy one corner, one drawer,
one fold at a time. A little each day
and soon the whole cerebral cortex glows
with order, every neuron optimized.

About the poet: Cecil Morris is a retired high school English teacher, sometime photographer, and casual walker. He spends a fair amount of his newly abundant free time reading poetry and trying to write what he formerly taught students to read and, he hopes, to enjoy. He and his indulgent partner, mother of their children, divide their time between the relatively arid Central Valley of California and the cooler coast of Oregon. He has poems appearing or forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, New Verse News, Rust + Moth, The Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere.