There’s this feeling of tasks
unaccomplished, something of necessity
I’m trying to find,
could be in one of my notebooks
or behind my bookshelf,
beneath a window left open overnight.
I can work for hours never getting closer
to what’s driving me than
dusty residue on my fingers or
screwed up blurry vision.
Dead moths, lines I scribbled over.
I make lists every few days
and check off items until I reach
the bottom. The significance
I’m looking for, in the end,
I never find it.
James Fleet Underwood writes poems rooted in place, memory, and daily life. His work explores childhood, loss, and the quiet rituals that shape how people endure and belong.