A ring I purchased in Morocco vanished
Some years ago. It turned up later in
The dryer's dust-trap, joining buttons banished
From trousers with a snap, a Kerry pin,
And sixty cents in change. So far, I've worked
Around the problem, wearing belts and using
Discover, while the little trinket lurked
In half a pound of dust, calmly musing
About its lot in life: I'm ninety-two
Point five percent, or Berber silver (can't
tell which); before my capture, me and you
Were meant to be, until, slipped through the scant
Horizon formed by dryer frames and forced
Past tumble cycles, we became divorced.
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