Cultivate the sense of being lost
I write to myself, pen scratching
Thin tissue paper in a bar, Bob
Marley tape on the stereo
My friend has a roll of toilet paper he
Wrote a poem on and on and on
I wouldn’t say he’s Kerouac but
Ten years later he’ll be a creative director
And will reject me for a job
While I cultivate the sense of being lost
So every day is fresh, even this
Muddled evening, stomach mildly poisoned
Fingers clacking on keyboard, Beth
Hart mp3 on the comp speakers
Two cats sit in judgment
Spying for Bast, no doubt
No doubt that scroll still sits
In a box somewhere in his house
A fragment of everything he let go
The day he chose to find his place
Cultivate the sense of being lost
I whisper to myself
Footheld on the familiar
The mundane and diurnal
Let the cats sit in judgment
And no one else
And, yes I have a place too
Something like a thief in your sanctuary
Something like a key to your heart
But I hold my confoundment carefully
I hone this sacred disorientation
It keeps me honest, keeps me keen
And when we reckon what we’ve lost
It won’t be you, it won’t be me
