Losing. FInding. Waiting.

You would like to think it is a function of age,
but if so, you have been senile since your twenties,
always losing things. Keys. Wallet. My way.
Love at times. Once or twice, God.

It is dangerous, your having things.
The less the better. The less to lose.
The less to matter.

There is peace in that. Having less.
Needing less. But, and there is always a but,
but the few things you have mean more.
The few friends mean more and their loss
leaves you empty and wondering
how to move on. The few dreams mean more
and their loss leaves you floundering.

Figuring out how to function is not hard.
You have a lifetime of habits that carry me.
You can, it seems, function without your heart,
and at times with half a mind.
No matter what is missing there is a backup.
An extra set of keys. An drawer full of pens.
Everything replaceable save Love.
But even without love, you function.
The living dead.

It is almost invisible, this habit of losing things.
Except for your wife who sees you looking around the room
a bit aimlessly. Most people do not notice.

Organization helps and you are very, very organized.
A place for things and things in their place.
Habits. Routine. All there to save you from yourself.
And often, more often than you deserve, it works. Paths open.
New dreams emerge. You only have to wait.
The universe is a generous thing,
profligate in its gifts and there is always
something new waiting to be found.
Eventually.

About this poem

I have been dwelling on loss a lot these past few weeks. It’s a periodic thing with me. So this poem is about that.

And I do lose my keys a lot. Yeah, those keys in the picture.

Tom