In the lost and found
there are
items that need our attention.
A raveled thread,
a hole in the sock of life:
We were gone for several days
and now we are not.
Our lost things await us
on a certain folding table
at the top of the stairs
as a janitor polishes the floor.
If we left again,
maybe he’d still be there;
forward and back, forward and back
goes time.

Prompt: Poetic Asides (lost and regained, from a few days ago when we were out of town).