Some say when you have mislaid your talent
just beef it up anyway,
any old words, ephemera, the plod
of small things,
If that happened to me, I’d stop...
dead stop in my tracks, not
scattering more moist sounds
to the world’s wind, already laden as it is
with too much spittle.
I’d look around for what I’d lost,
maybe ask Saint Christopher;
he’s helped in the past, practical items
turning up under sofas, in cots,
by sinks, or deep in grass.