The Return

I return to the park, in search of myself.
I know not where I left it, so I must retrace my steps.
I know I had it with me here. I remember it quite vividly.
But I do not recall if I took it with me or if I have had it since.

It was with me, under that tree
As I wrote and dreamed of life worth living.
Did I carry it off with me as I left?
Yes! I carried it all along that trail!

I carried it as I heard the cicadas chirp and the birds sing.
And, undeterred, through the barrage of honks and squeaks of the road nearby.
But it escapes my memory as to whether or not
I managed to carry it all the way home.

So I find myself at the gate, exasperated
Tossing about grass and dandelion and dirt alike.
Plunging my gross fingers into the earth, shoveling
Crying