The Catch-All

The key. For the shed. Gone.

So I pull the drawer, that groan

of metal on wood,

a graveyard of what I could

not throw.

Dead batteries, crusty ends.

A half-chewed pencil, no good friends.

A Canadian quarter, dull,

between a knot of cord and skull-

like, dried-out marker.

A rubber band, brittle, stuck

to a lollipop stick, pure bad luck.

This whole box, a kind of shame.

A monument to things I couldn't name

or fix. Or use.

Just grit and forgotten tasks,

behind cheap plastic masks.

Every useless piece,

a tiny, broken, rusted peace.

A mess. My mess.