Stuff
On a shelf:
A plastic skull inkwell,
the shell of a large land snail,
a thin obelisk of mallow melt.
A jar with a kidney stone in it.
One Hawaiian Hula dancer that wobbles
when touched inappropriately.
An old manual typewriter.
If this motley clutter were
an old map of my life
then my head would be an empty ink well,
a place for a homeless snail,
a wax candle that drips time.
A victim of stone pegs in round holes,
a molester of dancing indigenous women,
47 stiff keys that can no longer unlock
the mystery of ‘qwerty’.
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