Unlost

There are still silver thimbles,
doorknobs and black-eyed peas.
I choose to scrub the kitchen floor
on my hands and knees.

Lines swagged with bleached linen,
paper Valentines to be sent,
sins of omission to be forgiven,
no dark chocolate during Lent.

Dirt shovels and the blackest pitch,
rings to slip on or take off.
The unattainable scratch
and the tormenting itch.
So many things unlost.