To get lost is to learn the way—
printed sun-yellow on my apron.
I didn’t tell the man get lost when he said
“Me Too! I’d like to have you in bed.”
He’d been drinking beers in the hottest sun
but I listened and listened to how he’s lost
and a little broken about mortality, its cost.
Perhaps stuck at age eleven when his mother died.
To get lost is to learn the way
eventually. The man is almost sixty.
Because I’m afraid to make sunchoke soup, my apron’s not gritty
and years ago I played it safe when I should have been alive
in a beloved’s bed getting lost
to learn the way.