LOST THINGS

That heart of stone I had; what became of it?
If I should turn to the man sitting next to me –
The one drinking imported beer – and he should say
That he was Saint Anthony of Padua
And thus patron of finding lost things
I would ask him about it and he
Might say “Here; I have it in my pocket;
It hasn’t brought me  much luck.”

Those words I said forty years ago --
Or would have had the wind not taken them
And whirled them down the Midway –
Where are they? If I should ask
The woman in the office across the hall
She might bring me a map of Central Park
With one tree circled in red. “There is a wren’s nest,”
She will say “And I saw your words interwoven
With twigs and twine and bits of tin foil.”

My old friend to whom I might have sent this poem
So he’d write and ask what made me think of it
Where has he gotten to? The woman across the hall
Shrugs; St. Anthony of Padua orders a round
For everyone in the house.