by Glen Martin Fitch
Just try to pry apart
an infant's clasp.
"That's MY toy"
lurks beneath a toddler's bite.
"Mine's better. Trade ya."
Everything in sight,
each treasure, trophy, deed,
begs for our grasp.
We crave and save
and shop and cart
and yet
how does one keep stuff safe
and find the space?
Devalued, dated,
worn and torn,
we face
if not default,
remorse and
fear and debt.
You know,
the things you own, own you.
Each year it's what to save
and what to give away
and what to loan or chuck or hoard.
Each day you fret and sort,
till that which you hold dear,
a book or photo,
next to where you sleep,
is all the friendly nurses
let you keep.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011