Standard Issue

It was at the bottom of the ceramic bowl,

buried under pennies and a rusted hex key.

A blue aluminum circle, losing its soul,

the edges worn down by the friction of me.

I dropped a nickel and heard the sharp clink,

a high-pitched ghost of a collar’s old song.

It’s a sound that forces a person to think

about where all the quiet years have gone.

The phone number etched in the metal is dead,

disconnected back when the area code changed.

I put it back in the bowl, as I’ve said,

among all the things that remain unarranged.