Permanently parked cornered in dust,
A bare bin battered to rust,
Lifted ajar this chest crafted for treasure,
Loose contents inside stripped of their owner's pleasure.
A scribbled sheet hanging by peeling tape reads: Lost and Found Here,
Yet no one comes near,
Objects unified by randomness dwelling there,
Forever forsaken for untold years.
Umbrellas, scarves, and an abundance of worn shoes,
Three odd pairs of mittens shredding threads of navy blue,
Libraries of books, comics, and magazines,
Corners folded, rips at the seams,
Clustered together various odds and ends,
And oh so many chewed pencils and pens.
Blinding any size, color, and shape,
Defining only by their misplaced state,
As a group they lie, awaiting their destined fate.
Each item traveling similar blocks:
Once fallen, then uplifted, since—titled a paradox,
Dually joining lost with found,
Settling within a cardboard box.
There are others like these,
Their bins—neighborhoods lined with homes, streets, and trees,
Waking along the sun-filled day,
People of all kind lost or found in their way,
Or maybe both—it's hard to tell or say.
Across all cities, countries, and so,
These 'lost and founds' populate and grow,
There's one all recognize and know,
Its glamorous passage—a glistening, golden gate glow,
Hilly roads brimming with trolleys and wandering folks—also known as San Francisco.
Two lonely hearts cross amid plight,
Inner flames ignite,
Fountains of joy, a hopeful sight,
Becoming one, together faithful and bound,
Establishing their own, little 'lost and found'.
