I’ve got a drawer full of shoehorns
from all the crackers,
from all the Christmases,
since I was ten.
Sometimes, I take them all out
and line them up from
one end of the living room carpet
to the other.
In order of year, I start with the
burned red cedar of ’91,
when Dad took us out
to see Grandma,
and end this strange lineage of mine
with the neon green plastic
of last year, when I took us out
to see Dad.
Tonight I will open the drawer,
and lay out this ribcage
of memory, just once more
upon the floor.
ataraxicat 