The Patron Saint of Lost Things by Julie

Finding some lost thing

is a paradise all its own.

When that leather wallet

worn smooth as a burro's back,

ambles shyly into its old pocket,

or when those Manilow tickets

pry their way from beneath

the fridge like convicts

tunneling out of Sing Sing,

or when those car keys rear

their serrated heads like zombies

emerging from their tomb

of last year's tax returns,

or when that plain wedding band

rolls in shining and leaps back

onto its rightful ring finger,

the kingdom of heaven itself

seems almost at hand.

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