by Glen Martin Fitch
A string of buttons
(but for what?),
a cord, a pen
(no point)
a jig-saw puzzle piece,
(impossible to chuck,
inane to hoard.
Toss when I die.
I'll not cease till I cease)
A bottle stopper,
watchband
(ostrich hide),
eleven eyelets
(none for seven hooks)
Should I have dumped this box
the year you died
while sorting out
our closets, drawers and books?
That snotty clerk,
the secret place I kissed,
our favorite meal,
(Tell who now? How and why?)
shared spite,
shared worries,
all the things I've missed.
(a look from you, I laughed,
one word, you sighed.)
Lost lock,
when will you know again this key?
(What does one do
with half a memory?)
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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