Losing Control

You know how you can desperately need something, and then when you walk into a room to get it, you automatically forget what it was that you needed so urgently?

My sister used to wait tables when she was younger, and says that she and her fellow wait staffers would say that they had just “crossed the stupid line” whenever they did that.

I’m not sure if someone’s been surreptitiously installing stupid lines in my house while I sleep, or whether I’m just experiencing early-onset senility, but I’ve been more absent-minded than ever lately. Some of the things I’ve misplaced include my keys, sunglasses, checkbook, dog leash, phone, hammer, purse, laptop, Kindle, camera, jacket, sweatshirt, running shoes, and the subject of today’s poem.

And that was just this morning.


Losing Control

It isn’t by the TV
or over on the chair,
or on the coffee table —
can’t find it anywhere.

It isn’t on the sofa.
it isn’t on the floor.
It isn’t by the bookshelf.
It isn’t by the door.

It isn’t on the ottoman
nor underneath that coat.
It’s nowhere near and thus it’s clear
why we call it a “remote.”


©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz


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