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Sherman Pearl
 What I came For Second Prize 2001 Poetry Contest flashed at me, called out from the kitchen and the instant I reached for it vanished—poof—filled my hand with its absence, my mind with its shadows. I looked for it in the fridge, stood in the chilly light nibbling leftovers, testing for the taste of whatever it was I'd come for. I rummaged for it in drawers full of nameless gadgets; I scanned the cabinets, searched the bowls, emptied teacups for clues and wondered if what I came for was in the bedroom, maybe, under blankets where my wife and I find each other, solid and warm, or in the bathroom where odors thick with memory might lead me snuffling like a bloodhound to the thing I've come for. I followed my footprints back through the deep pile carpeting, found traces of what I dropped on the way but not what I came for. What I came for buzzes my hair, tingles my veins; it chums in me when I add up my blessings and discover one missing. One night I'll find it. I'll be at the table with my wife having late supper, chewing the day. I'll bite into something tangy and foreign she's cooked or look up at the wall clock, surprised at the hour and it will come to me. I'll savor it, swallow it, feel its downward passage
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