Maybe I should go and look
under towels, shoes,
swim caps and water stained
homework, the pile of my life’s
rambles.

Underneath it all
what is lost is never found.
Salt and pepper shakers,
kings and queens in chess,
candles

floating in the bowl,
these are two that become three.
In the mines of memory,
beams fall and splinter,
sandals

burn in a burnished bowl.
There is no dance that does
not require replacement,
that does not renege with
vandals.