those missing years

they go through

my files, holding me under
house arrest.

photo albums are brought out.
cards
and letters.

the black box,
the computer scanned
with all
their fine
tooth comb forensics.

i'm under the big light,
sweating,
cuffed.

we have a problem, here
the bogart man
in the big hat says, leaning
over

to blow smoke into my
face.

we have a gap, there are
almost three years of your life
missing.
nothing.
no record, no pictures, no
texts,
or emails. no memorabilia.

it's like your life went
blank for awhile. those days and
months,
years have been swept clean,
deleted from

your files.

what was her name?
tell us.

I give it to them, I spell
it out,

first last, middle, maiden.
they all stand back and gasp.

oh my, Bogart says.
we had no idea.
let him
go, uncuff him. we owe
this man

an apology. he's been through
hell and back.

we get it now. sorry to have
bothered you.

have a nice day. we'll see
ourselves out.