Lose something every day.
—Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”
Lose something every day, the poet said—
and how I laughed the first time that I read
her words. My keys? My gloves? My place in line?
My favorite socks? A name? My glass of wine?
I’ve got that down, I thought, and shook my head.
But then I thought of passing time, the threads
of dates unraveling—and how I try to wind
them back, reclaim those squandered hours as mine.
Lose something every day?
And then I thought of certainty, how wed
I am to thoughts, convictions, faith. Instead
of losing them, I cling. Then they confine.
Some things are better lost—my rigid mind,
my prejudice, old chains of shame, my dread—
lose something every day.
