Notes About The Poem
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LIBRARY OF FORGOTTEN THINGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the third shelf down,
where dust performs its quiet ballet,
a shoebox coughs up Polaroids
of someone else’s honeymoon.
The wallpaper remembers~
peels itself back slowly,
revealing the yellowed teeth
of old pencil marks:
Jesse + Sam, 1992,
now just graffiti for termites.
A single glove, left-handed,
curls into a fist around nothing.
The clock, stopped at 3:17,
swallows its own ticking.
Even the ghosts here
are forgetting why they linger.
But sometimes,
when the wind shoulders through
a cracked window,
the whole place exhales~
and for a breath,
every lost thing
remembers its name.
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