The thing I thought about
for hours turned out to be

in the place I thought I’d left it
when I at last got up out of bed to check.

In fact it was in the place I have always
stored it, which I knew again

when I went there first in my hunt
out of sheer luck or some sense memory

and there it was as it always is,
except when I worry

about it being elsewhere. 
Maybe it travels on my insomnia,

riding my anxiety to see all the places
I have never left it, then rushes back home

when I stagger out of bed to search; now
I can’t remember what it’s called other than

the thing I thought about for hours that isn’t
where I left it until it is. A silly thing

to be crying about,
whatever it is.