I've lost all of the things I put
away in that box. That book that torn
diary (dog-eared but with sheets hanging
out like dogs' tongues). That map marked in colour
with the puke of cheap plastic pens. The love letters
(perhaps so I might come across one by accident).
That wristwatch of mine which stops still
like me (but at will)
and the green Solapuri sheet which though roofless
every time we played house.
And if you look closely, under everything else,
you might find me.