I hold in my hand a ring. Moxium High.
Class of '58. The initials my own.
Within weeks, I'd left it by a public sink.
Loss noted and retraced steps - both
immediate, but c'est la vie. Seven
years later it returned, having found
its way to the alma mater with its
postal degree, some half-dozen
other Moxiums. A worthy scholarship,
the particulars of that seven-year odyssey
which remains mute within the zero of
this prodigal trinket of youth, inanimate
wanderer, whose encircled secret rests
upon my palm, yet forever beyond my grasp.