where the writers are
Mislaid

I lost a good friend once
the selfsame way I lost my wedding ring
Those final months I teased it
on and off my finger
such an irritation on the skin
but an anxiety when out of sight
knowing within a day or two
when it had disappeared,
but not quite how

The frantic curve of search
that fades at last to shrug

But ‘lost’ is not the same as ‘gone’
or so I like to tell myself
on certain days when it seems I and not the ring
have been mislaid in public places
on some undistinguished sink or ledge
to be retrieved by strangers

I like to think it spiraled slowly down the drain
to come to rest in some small quiet pool
beneath a house where I no longer live
and if I dig
I still might find her there:
beloved of earthworms,
covered with mud and salt.