The Catch-All

The remote died during the evening news,

so I’m digging through the kitchen’s shallow gut.

I’m sifting through the things I didn’t lose,

though the drawer is getting harder now to shut.

I find the keys to a car I haven't seen,

and a lemon packet from a summer fry.

The plastic turns a sickly shade of green

underneath the ceiling light, cold and dry.

A nest of rubber bands has gone to seed,

brittle and snap-prone at a single touch.

It’s never the one thing I actually need,

just a pile of junk that used to mean so much.