Zinc Memory

Cleaning out the box of old keepsakes,

my hand hit metal, a cold, flat disc

that clinked against the bottom.

It was Scout's.

His name, his name,

and a phone number, long since cut off.

Zinc, I guess, or something cheap.

Not gold, not silver, but a plain old tag.

It sat on the counter, dull and snagged,

a tiny circle that held

a whole ten years,

a whole wet nose, a heavy paw,

a bark, a chase, a happy whine,

all on a piece of tin. It's mine

to keep this cold, hard, empty sign.