On Losing My Cell Phone

I’m wearing jeans I chose for comfort 
held low on my hips by a belt 
when from a too-shallow pocket 
my cell phone slips out. 
I retrace my steps. 
I will not panic. 
Shield, please, Lord, 
my phone from lawn sprinklers 
and the crush of car tires 
while it waits for me, 
lub-dubbing unheard like a heart. 

Clutter and debris shine metallic and phone-like
in the sunshine. I’m dizzy: 
the hassle, the expense, the lost memory. 
If people can’t reach me, over time, will they forget me?
I imagine my ring-tone sounding desperate. 

God breaks down for this pleading widow 
and gives me what I want so blessedly often. 
Grimy guilt can dim my taste for hope. 
Taste a fresh peach just after licking a cherry snow cone.
There was no hope in my first marriage. 
My second husband died. I live 
for God’s loving pat; to be 
picked up, brushed off, and 
set on course again. 
The easy metaphor: when I call 
I know I can rely on an answer. 
I don’t use a cell phone. 

There it is: nested, camouflaged, 
upright like a miniature tablet of commandments,
waiting in stiff prairie grass, 
its shape as simple as a tombstone.