I’m good at losing things.
Whether they be people or objects
I can find the recesses of the world
That those things won’t follow me to.
Places no human foot
Would touch besides my own.
Places where the gravity of the situation
Sucks the pens and socks and keys and books and shoes
All away from me.
If it be a discussion of my minds own corners
Or perhaps the loss of my dear friends.
Or if none of that works I’ll tell that story about my daddy.
But I’ve never had hands big enough to fill up with these things.
No desire to fill packs with all of the things people carry along on their journey.
Never desired to hold all of the shiniest brightest possessions the world has to offer in my hands.
So I lost them.
Went places they couldn’t accompany me in.
I left trails from here to Maine and back again.
Little pens and combs and shoes and hats and smiles and tears.
Lost all those things because I’ve got small hands.
The small hands of the farmer’s family.
Big enough to make a seed seem like the world.
And an egg seem like a galaxy.
Small hands to hold onto very little.
I don’t have my mother’s wide royal hands.
Hands built for grasping tea cups or scepters
Hands made for signing decrees.
I have hands built to work.
Hands that ball into fists so easily
Clutching on to one singular thing as I fight off the world.
I have hands that beg to be used to make and then give it away
Because I can’t hold onto it.
I lose things because I have no place to keep them.
No place to set them and look at them.
And no desire.
No desire to fashion the world in my own designs.
I know it all will simply come crashing down at some point.
So let me just push life away.
Let me go down
Down into the holes and recesses of the world
Where these things won’t follow me.
Let me pack up my life.
Stuff what I can in a suitcase
And that which won’t fit
Let it be lost.