An eraser won't remove them,
nor will a coat of paint,
nor the vow

to drink enough cheap champagne to forget,
and unlike the hair of the dog,
they can't be shook off.

Change addresses; check every box.
They'll still be there when you unpack.

Let thirty years pass.  The shoe sizes
of your grandchildren fade.  So do birthdays.
But let a certain poem or song lyric
be brought up

and here they come
all thumbs and giggly dispositions
posting their large, gaudy pictures in your head:
first kiss, first car, first sex.