I pat myself down, front pockets
Back pockets, see if perhaps it
Was hanging from my belt but gone.
Was it some medallion of charm
That I was supposed to have that
Rolled under the fridge, right into
That black fuzzy crack that I can't
See into. Is that why it is the
Way it is.

I look into your eyes straight
Through your head. You talk but
I am not listening. I am looking
For something that you may have
Said, something I was supposed to
Remember but have forgotten. Was
It that thing I could do that would
Make it all much easier for us.

Was it that drink I haven't had in
10 months. Is it the cool easy
realization that addiction has been
staved, another day, another situation
avoided. Like a suit that is a bit
to loose, this new sober foot that
I have to stand on, my justification
for feelings, that just doesn't seem
to fit.

A book maybe. That thing about Zen.
Chasing that emptiness that is
Supposed to already be here. Another
Step towards authentication, or just
A simple sit on a stool. A poem that
Wants to be written but smothered in
Frustration. What. What it is.