Whereabouts

Glove box rummages itself & dumps: fuzzy cough droppings & stuck (menthol) among them a misdirectional map intrigues me: say clotheslines’ fripperies hopping the breeze off the alley & garbage lids clanging downhill to the sea: say there in the sea floes of penguins bobbing up to Argentine flamingos. How hard is it to get lost? Listen to lost useless horses whingeing for home & hames, a lost grail stuffed with dirt deaf to human legends long unstrung of sacred tune & lost, children prodded along in the loops of war, hopscotch mistake, the cast stone skipped off the lake instead & lost the tournament to the nice policeman there with the ice cream precinct & his body buddy Dad. Dad declares he knows by the spit & stripe of her this’s no one of his own, his kids mope,& he goes. Ear to ear I must look lucky at last, librarian at the dictionary of things looking-up ever since I hid in the glove box, pretending to be directions.