by David Bergman
There are things I can’t stop searching for:
my glasses, letters I should have mailed
weeks ago, my great aunt’s maiden name.
I’m certain they’re somewhere around here
enjoying my frustration. Of course
I know it’s useless, and only by
abandoning the hunt do I have
any chance of their turning up. Still
I look for that secret hiding place
where things beyond our reach take shelter.
Sometimes I feel that I’m just about
to lay my fingers on them. The name
I’m almost certain starts with a T.
Or perhaps it’s with a W.
And before I know it, every
letters seems a possibility.
Terrifying is the sense of floating
in a world where what we care about
can slip away unnoticed as if
through some backdoor of the universe.
Yet why must we surrender
what we hope to possess? Or need
to forget what we’ll soon remember?
Why is indifference the smartest
strategy to lure back those whose chief
delight resides in having fooled us
into thinking they’d never return?
If for once I met you at the door
with all the joy I feel, would you then
vanish like the keys I’ve yet to find?