One Left

Ran out of hangers. Went into the drawer —

the dead batteries, the key to something gone,

two takeout menus, a birthday candle. Things

that stay because removing them takes on

more significance than a Tuesday allows.

At the back: one wooden clothespin. Small.

The spring rusted just enough to leave an orange

mark on my thumb. I stood there in the hall

holding it. I've never had a clothesline.

Never. I don't know who it belonged to

or what it held. It held something. That's clear.

The spring still closes. That much is true.

I thought about throwing it away.

I didn't. Put it back and closed the thing.

I have a lot of objects with no history.

I keep them all. I don't know what they're missing.