Lost Property

Lost Property If I collected all the lost keys – the ones on rings, or chains, that drop into drains, unclaimed, and squat there, sequestered out of sight, rusting behind bars, far below blue sky, in dank, stale beds, just beyond light; all the buttons, hanging by a thread, that fall, unnoticed, and ***-ends, and bits of cotton gone astray; credit cards, slipped slyly from shallow pockets; lipstick, abandoned by a sink-side; drawing pins and tacks that nestle in soft pile poised to pounce, and pierce the flesh of hand or foot like nails, evading hammers, spiralling from empty shelves dropped down loudly to swearing curses; under sofas, between cracks, rogue staples worked free, sending loose leaves scattered to the wind; If I could gather these, place winking silver coins beside the rest; create small change; collect them in a shiny tin; then I might thread the needle, mend the holes, pay my debts, unlock all the doors, and let the world back in.