Phyllis M. Teplitz
This morning my glasses weren’t
right by my book
where I left them last night.
Nor anyplace else I looked in the house—
by the computer mouse,
even in the fridge where I once
found the sugar bowl, AWOL.
My sapphire-blue sweater,
heisted, I’m sure,
by some mischievous poltergeist.
I once saw a Cairo airport photo—
a mountain of luggage, unclaimed.
I imagine somewhere there’s a tower
of my treasures, un-named,
long since spirited away—
maybe my seed pearls, crystal beads,
my dragon kimono,
slinky silk, Chinese red.
Ten satin scarves, hand painted.
Two cashmere coats. Twenty-one
umbrellas left on busses and trains.
Still, another hypothesis
I have yet to prove—I believe
the atoms in my glasses came unglued.
Just flew apart, all over
the blue carpet.
Even the ceiling, the walls,
with recalcitrant optical particles
refusing to stay coalesced.
—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005