The drawers in the antique shop are old.
The wood is pitted and alive with patina.
Pull them out and you find the debris of someone else’s life,
different, but not unlike your own.
Old screws, fragments of hardware, broken things,
Here and there something is intact and out of context,
a rusty light switch, a tarnished silver spoon.
All for sale, it seems. Buy the cabinet
and the flotsam is yours.
To dispose of, or claim as treasure,
whichever you will.
About this poem
A poem about old things. A poem about relationships.