I’ve Lost My Poetry Book
I’ve lost my poetry notebook.
That slender scribbler with blue and white boats on the cover
fitting instantly in pockets
unobtrusive on nighttables
familiar with coffee shops and handbags, desks and grassy mound,
alert and keen
it waited for flighty inspiration.
I’ve lost the mad jottings,
the crossing out, the changes,
synonyms in endless lists,
invented words mocked by their conservative neighbours.
I’ve lost my mind
my moment of respite
my calm in eye of storm
the grips that hold me onto life.
And in the world I know
nothing is ever fully replaceable.