Losing

Looking, looking, looking.
They’re lost, misplaced, hiding.
Or I am. They’re shiny, come on!
Even in the slut’s wool under the bed
next to winter-abandoned sandals
they should heliograph their presence.

Shouting, shouting, shouting
I’m mad, livid, raging
or you are. I’m fifty –nearly-
can’t someone at this age keep tighter
grip of something as important
as a steely piskie-stolen set of keys?