A fraying basket holds these things
—borrowed, stolen, found—
That have drifted into my life
And found new meaning here.
That—my favorite mug, an imperfect
Heat-distorted student’s effort
Cast aside into eager hands—
And here, this pen that holds
My scrawling letters and scattered
Thoughts, a broken nib
Once pushed to and fro in faint light
By my father—purchased long ago.
And on my wall, the black square
Of tile we found that night—
Knocked from the wall, set aside
Where we kissed deeply, unexpectedly
In the phosphorescent light.
It was once a part of something whole—
A wall that held aloft a roof
That diverted the rain above our heads.
Now it holds nothing more than that moment.
A talisman of what we lost—
And a love that has drifted from me
Like the photo I once treasured
Of innocent dancing in the rain
And the scarf I knit that winter.
Where are they now, those things
That I treasured then?
The marker of a new memory perhaps
Or atop another’s shelf—I hope.
I hope, I hope, but will never know
If these things that I once loved,
That have leaked away from me,
a trickle of moments—the stuff of my life—
If these have bled into the lives of others
Who now hold them dear—
Or if they are just lost, awash
In the tide, or between the flickers of old
Fluorescent light in a crumbling room.
