Today I taught my last 

Italian class of the season.

In my locker I found the novel

I thought I had lost.

My Margaret Atwood,

The one with a note from my father

Scribbled on the first page.

I had an identical copy in my bag

Because I’m used to losing

And replacing things,

A brief mourning

Followed by action.

I am getting better and better

At this.

I got home,

Locked my bike,

Slipped on the sidewalk.

My right ankle twisted and burning,

Blood on my left foot.

It’s fine,

This body is frail,

Soon thirty-tree,

Accepting defeat.