Cabinet archaeology

New toothpaste, that's what I went in for.

But opening the mirrored door,

it was a small museum, dusty and grim.

Bottles, amber and opaque, a rim

of dried syrup on one cap. An expired cream,

tubes squeezed flat, a half-used bottle of cough stuff

from some winter I barely recall. Enough

half-forgotten needs, a silent scream

of minor ailments, small fears kept inside.

Like finding old notes in a drawer,

proof of a life I’d lived and tried

to fix, then left behind the door.