Container

I found the tin can in the cabinet,

full of buttons, nails, and scraps,

hardware that might have value,

things that never seem to close gaps

between usefulness and junk.

I dumped it on the counter—

jewelry broken, watches dead,

screws meant for walls I've shed,

everything scattered like it wanted

to be found, to be wanted,

to mean something again.

I sorted through each piece

like it might explain the reason

I keep collecting without season,

holding onto nothing with a grip

so tight I'd have to skip

admitting what I know:

The tin is all that's left.

The rust on the rim is theft

of time. The label, half-peeled,

can't tell me what was sealed

inside before I filled it

with this weight of things

that don't belong to anything.

I put it back.

The cabinet closes. I lack

the courage to throw it away,

the strength to say

that I'm done holding on

to things that don't belong.