POEM: Getting Lost

He lost himself one day.
He didn’t know where he was,
whether swirling among stars
or simply sitting at his desk
as the sun ascended east of Westerly.
It was embarrassing, of course.
A person should always know
precisely where he is,
but now he had lost himself.
He whistled,
hoping that Ham would hear,
perhaps on the highest mountain passes,
or in the districts of the sea,
or just at his desk
as Tuesday takes off across the sky.