The Brooch

We sat on the dirty stairs 

holding hands and looking sad.

His name was Ralf

and tomorrow at

"la bonne heure"

he was

leaving Paris, 

going home to Geneva.

He gave me a brooch made of metal,

two hands breaking a rifle in two.

I pinned it on my jacket,

the black leather one

that was stolen

some years

later.

I bought a new jacket,

also black leather,

also stolen 

later.

I could have bought a new brooch,

identical to the one I had lost.

But I never did.

I couldn't replace the connection lost.

Lost

when I lost

the brooch.

First published in Silver Birch Press, Lost and Found Series, March 2017

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/the-brooch-poem-b…/