Crisis: Losing The Best “Stuff”

Losing things

Fingers to earlobe
Finding uninterrupted silence
Instead of warm happy chit-chat
Thick, lustrous gold slipped away.

A crisis.

Hands full, hurry.
Juggling wallet, phone, keys, sunhat.
Black sequined jacket over left shoulder.
Pay, run to catch train.
Bejeweled garment, so glittery, so loved
Left, lost, gone.

The wind knocked out
A block pulled from foundation
Causing tumbling down.

“It’s just stuff.”

Looking outside.
A world filled with human suffering
Brutality, famine, sickness.
I’m lucky and have much.

But the agony of losing haunts.
Where does all that “stuff” go?
Why does the best stuff always leave?



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