Every so often, I begin to feel
something is lost, something
I prized and put away for safe keeping.
And the search begins.
On top of shelves and down behind
like bats that hang in awkward places
cling with their feet,
asleep, ignoring my calls.
Ah then, perhaps in a drawer?
Rolled up with t-shirts and shorts,
having no plausible association
but it's a soft, safe place
even if lost there, forever.
No name, no memory
to say what is lost.
And there I find something else
I forgot I had. It too,
and safe these many years.
There at the bottom where shirts
wear out. And sorrows get lost.
If you've any comments on
this poem, L. Fullington would be pleased to hear from you.