The things we find at the back of drawersare a carnival sideshow,oddities from our lives,settled in dust,disconnected from their doings,like body parts in formaldehyde.The pockets of suitcases,house the shoved-in, accidental and inconvenientride-alon...
The things we find at the back of drawers
are a carnival sideshow,
oddities from our lives,
settled in dust,
disconnected from their doings,
like body parts in formaldehyde.
The pockets of suitcases,
house the shoved-in, accidental and inconvenient
the last pair of dirty underwear discovered on the floor
of the airport hotel
the travel tags from last time,
those left on the bag
in a kind of homage to the parallel universe
that exists apart from the rigid constraints of the forty hours
we elude in early evening bar visits,
books, movie houses, walks in the park, and
thought travel while ostensibly filling out that timesheet;
the hair-clip, earring, train pass, ticket stub and other
random reminders of singular events that tumble out on a
bright, cleaning-out Saturday morning, and stop
us in our tracks.
frozen like a hawk surveying the field stubble for small, furry backs;
and suddenly hearing a rustle of dried stalks,
we glimpse the life we know moves invisibly before us,
but are, even now, interrupted by
someone calling about dinner and a movie.
The things we keep on shelves,
in shrines to nostalgia or sentiment or achievement,
are never as rich as the surprising visitation by
the unintended scrap of slag
we thought we left behind.