Lost Poem by Tzivia Gover I write in pastel chalk on sidewalks, on the shore on the pier where crowds watch sunset blaze the water orange, then pink. I write poems on the borders of everything, between land and sea and day and night. On the shoulder of the highway, I squat writing stanzas beneath the feet of shoppers haggling at the market. I compose lines on asphalt while a man argues with his son above my head. In a flurry of inspiration I describe the wind’s voice. It’s possible I’m falling into cliché -- I write anyway. Old newspaper pages rustle past and the rain begins. The rain will wash my stanzas out. Yes, you say, you are sure of it. You are probably right. Still, I search on hands and knees, crawl between fast-moving ankles. People shake their heads high above me, like trees tossing their leaves, tsk-tsking at the love of a lost cause -- even as I discover one unharmed stanza, sheltered beneath a picnic table, and another, on the highway, just before it slides into the storm drain. I search pier and stadium, the market, the edges of everything. I search my memory, this moment, recover what I can. But this road, leading out of town has become a river now with all this rain. And it’s a shame because my best, my final, my most amazing stanza was written there. And while you and the rest of the world retreat to watch TV, complain that I distract you, am making too much noise, looking foolish on my knees, I follow the yellow line down the center of the road, looking looking my lost words they had something to do with joy something about tomorrow and healing and something else worth saying.