Ball jars, growlers, cake plates,
wooden spoons, taper candle stuck in wine bottles,
crystal pitcher full of bottle caps,
bamboo plants and rain boots by the door.
Magnet words stuck on the fridge,
picasso’s blue lady in chipped black frame,
jars of ink and stained pen nibs,
hair clips in the bathroom.
Red handkerchiefs and worn paperbacks,
a key chain in a pocket. Coffee spoons stained
on counters next to crumbs,
receipt papers overflowing cigar box.
I cannot count the things I love
the bricks in a wall, the buildings I’ve blown kisses at.
I cannot defend clothespins or old postcards,
boxes of clementines on a table, any better than I
can defend poetry or myself. Some things are simply
alive and quench a thirst of the soul. Some things
just make me smile. I cannot say why lipsticks or
bottles of nail polish make me blush any more than I
can say why gold sequin dresses are my inheritance.
Choward’s violet candies, Ralph’s Italian ice, the little
plastic cups used for communion in Baptist churches.
Black gum spots or crushed glass diamonds in sidewalks.
The collar of a man’s shirt soft with wear, flowers painted
on china tea cups. Mismatched bowls, Meyer’s basil soap,
A metal cocktail mixer. Leather suitcases stuffed with scarves,
cherry blossom branches, pipe tobacco, ink spots on pages.
Scissors in a kitchen drawer, flannel hunting jackets.
My chest rises and falls for these, my fingers dream and hope.
My life and friends, my God and faith, my world is full of things.