The class ring

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.

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