Emerson Adkins Poet Narrative

The Leftovers

I was cleaning my room tonight  
and came across a guitar pick,
one of your used.
		
A further search 
among broken staple cartridges,
multi-colored plastic coated 
and classic metal paperclips and 
pennies, produced  
five other picks, 
worn down from their
original rounded triangles
to somewhat odd circles.  
		
I laid the picks out in a circle
like flat quartz rocks against
the sand-colored formica of my desk.
Two sky blues, one pink 
and two tortoise shells.
I close my eyes and hear your blues,
and mine surge like a wave
until I gasp for air.  
		
I treasured away your discarded picks
in a heart-shaped ceramic dish 
that got broken somehow
in the move at the separation.  
There should be more than this,
but I became unsupportive, you said,
when I tired of the smoky bars,
and then I wanted a degree,
which absorbed any extra energy,
so you no longer pitched me your picks
or thought I cared.
		
Maybe someone new gets your leftovers,
But I'm better off not knowing, 
just in case there is a limit past
the pain of which I couldn't take.
But I'll keep living anyway,
As long as there is a sun in the morning 
and the moon at night,  
I'll live for the rises and sets
if that's all I get.

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