It Held a Breath

Up in the rafters over the pool lies a beach ball still inflated after seven long years, with the breath of someone long gone, by the wayside. I wonder what other belongings this person, or maybe I, have left behind to intrigue passers-by. People may wonder from whom, or from whence, they came. These passed-on-by-things left, where sleeping dogs lie, are best not awakened, shaken nor stirred. For no one really cares or even dares to try to find out to whom they once belonged. Perhaps we should?