the hand seizes upon a tear
in the fabric of the universe
a black hole in the pocket
of an overcoat
cold fingers poking through
flimsy fleece
down to the very hem
find only matches a rusty nail
clipper an old to-do
list crumpled into a ball
thirty-five no thirty-six cents
a misplaced belief
still persists the one missing
the other the sole mate
will turn up maybe at the diner
right where it was left
like a bad tip by the spilt salt
shaker or more
likely the backrow
at the movies overlooked
beneath the seat
the proverbial one
hand clapping perhaps
a murky booth at an eastside
dive falling out while shooting
schnapps with fern from
work possibly dropped on
the staggeringly long way down
8th street or stumbling out
of a taxi fumbling around
for the key bumbling up
the neighbors’ stairs shrill
cockapoo on the other side
of an obtuse door barking
symmetry first
then hope too is lost
for one without the other
feels if not useless used
if not unwanted wanting
if not nothing something
to be discarded replaced
