there’s just one place that waits for me
when I leave. everywhere else is stepped sat on touched
by stranger skin like wax. little trinkets will wander in and I close
the door behind them and once they’re on a shelf
they were always on the shelf and there’s nowhere else
because I got it right the first time.
it’s where everything that had a use doesn’t have
one anymore because switches aren’t
switched and rusty amber perfume bottles
are almost full. and every crinkled paper is written on all over
as if one day they’ll go off
to see the world and maybe bring back some of the people they find.
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