Pens
pencils
exacto knife
markers
disappear
from a tin on my desk.

Some surface on the kitchen counter,
on the living room carpet, or under the table
where I indulge my jigsaw hobby. Others,
often those chosen when composing poetry,
are absent until I tackle dust bunnies
under the bed or spy one lurking
among the fronds of my favorite fig.

Artful perpetrator
announces
her forays
with triumphant
yowls
in the middle of the night.