On my old work table
Where my computer softly hums
My life spreads out around me
In sheets of paper, pencils, pens,
Rolls of tape and other detritus
That each day changes
But never goes away.
It’s like a memory I can touch,
A memory that gathers dust,
That builds in musty layers on the tabletop.
Most of the time I just ignore it all;
But some days, like today,
I start digging through the piles
With growing fear
I can no longer find the single thing
I need to make life whole again.
©2021 John I. Blair, 1/25/2021