What Collects Below

I reached for my keys and found

something else first—hard plastic,

shaped like a toy or a piece of a toy,

something I couldn't name.

Dust had settled into its crevices.

My fingers came away gray.

I couldn't place it, couldn't remember

owning anything this small,

this forgotten.

I left it there.

Came back twice to look at it

lying in the darkness,

this thing that had lived under my bed

without my knowing.

Now I think about what else

collects in the spaces we don't check,

what accumulates while we sleep

directly above it, unaware.

The keys were next to it.

I grabbed them and left the toy

where it was, still unidentifiable,

still pressing into my mind

like something I should remember

but can't.