Nothing to grieve.

since they are only things,

but we needed them

to lock our doors

or prove to strangers

we are who we claim

to be. Those real-life synecdoches,

not truly lost, we may

just never see them again.

A romantic might say,

they are waiting

to be found—

under cushions, purloined

upon table cloth daffodils

or riding the train to Coney Island

again. Unaware they have strayed,

more innocent than children

who follow clowns down midways.

Have you checked all your pockets?

she asks as though you were a novice

at loss. As though you hadn’t

like a teenage lover

riffled clothes all night

till your reversed pockets

flop. You ransacked your home

like you were stealing

from yourself. Unveiling

things you had long stopped

looking for. It turns out,

there are always new losses

to be found. At last,

she asks the worst question of all

for the seeker of lost things:

​

Where was the last place

you remember having them?

with such concern, as if the loss

were her own. Your frustration

is misplaced, and the advice to retrace

your steps, misleading. She just means,

How is it

you could be

so careless?

Jacob Scheier