on dusty racks
my whole life sits
in crumpled balls of
scribbled lines
the stories that
i couldn’t tell
my snowglobes
show foreign times
and foreign places
brought to me by
loving hands
letters to people
long forgotten
all the friends
i left behind
pictures of my
shiny face
framed by glowing
youth and mirth
both things lost to the years
and covered in filmy dust.
little toy frogs
and old, folded blankets
yellow music boxes
and chipped, brown mugs
sit in cobwebs
to tell my story.