Inventory

The ceramic bowl in the hall

has been holding nothing but dust

and a few loose dimes.

I finally picked it up today.

At the bottom, under a rusted key,

was a small blue circle of tin.

The edges are silver now,

rubbed down by the friction of a neck

that isn't here to hold it.

The light from the window

catches the scratches on the back—

the three, the eight, the half-gone name.

I put it back in the change

and left the bowl on the floor.