This Is Us
Lost Things
All the lost things we ever had
are somewhere still,
present, existing,
even if we can’t see them;
a comforting thought,
like believing in God,
or that people never really die.
All the lost things we ever had
are somewhere still,
under beds, between train seats,
in gardens, beneath paving stones,
in cushion stuffing,
gutters, washed out to sea,
growing into coral and tree roots.
All the lost things we ever had
are kept carefully by the ocean
like a mother in an empty nest,
waiting for our return —
flip flops, bottles, clothes pegs,
juice cartons, buttons, glue —
beauty and memory everywhere.
All the lost things we ever had,
strewn on her sandy carpet,
create more questions than answers:
whose hair did that ribbon hold?
what meal was eaten on that broken plate,
with that twisted fork?
where are the teeth for that toothbrush?
