The worst thing in the world

The worst thing in the world happened to me tonight.
The second time really, but just as bad.
It started with a thought,
A simple desire,
To look at some old poems I had written,
Maybe to submit some for publication,
But really just to read them again myself.
So I look for my notebook on the bookshelf,
Where it isn't.
Well of course, I haven't unpacked it from the move yet,
The move six months ago I realize guiltily,
But no matter, just open the boxes with the unpacked books,
Not there, must be in the cabinet in the hall,
Not there, maybe the box of magazines in the closet?
Not there, but it must be...
It must be...
And two hours later, it isn't.
And a part of me, something I treasured, is gone,
So I struggle to remember lines,
Which poems were in the notebook,
Are there early drafts anywhere?
But mostly they're gone.
And I'm reminded of three years earlier,
And a similar move,
With similar results,
And so much of what I treasured is gone.

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