Poem of the Week by Joe Brainard

Happy Monday. The poem, this week, is only sort of a poem. It's an excerpt from a book-length work I Remember by Joe Brainard. Paul Auster said this "modest little gem will endure. In simple, forthright, declarative sentences, [Brainard] charts the map of the human soul and permanently alters the way we look at the world." From pages 133-134:

I remember my mother picking up tiny specks of lint off things.

I remember, at the end of the sofa, a group of four little pillows that had only one casual arrangement.

I remember that no one sat on the sofa (light beige) unless we had company.

I remember (very vaguely) hearing my mother tell a story about an old lady across the street who died, and the people who moved in after her complaining becuase they could never quite get rid of "the smell."

I remember horrible visions of that island where lepers were sent.

I remember "the green stuff" inside my first lobster.

I remember (ugh) white nurse shoes.

I remember trying to visualize "the travels" of shit, after you flush the toilet.

What do you remember?