it's here somewhere

it's an easy
thing to lose
a car. a watch,
a pen, a set of
keys, to not
remember which lot,
which letters or
numbers fit the place
where you so
carefully pulled
in and parked.
was it left,
was it right.
and you wonder if
it's the beginning
of the end,
that slow slide
that the elderly slip
so easily but not
so suddenly in,
the start of winter
and fog, the sharpness
dulled, the life
once led with pride,
and clarity
now frightfully
humbled and stalled.