I ate my first pomegranate
and watched a spray of red-orange stain
my white tee shirt— I understood loss.
I tallied up loss like a fan counting strikeouts.
The loss of my equestrian hopes
while riding the Coney Island steeplechase.
The loss of my plans to climb Mt Everest
when my breath caught me short on Old Rag.
The loss of a library book when
a cup of coffee sprawled across two pages.
The loss of my wallet to a pickpocket
practicing his trade in Harvard Square.
The loss of dinner when I added sugar
to a recipe calling for flour.
Other losses need their own space,
they dwarf the mundane.
Linda Watskin ©2010