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