Things saved.
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To my son, age five, I gave
A string-drawn sack in which he’d save
Important things to little boys;
And fill to brim such vital choice.
Within this sack, collections formed:
Of crayon nubs, socks well-worn,
Dried skins of snakes, and spider’s web,
Inflating needle and Barbie’s leg;
The tooth from a deer, an autumn leaf,
Hardened gum (stuck underneath);
A rock, or two, shines mica bright;
A bug that only lights at night;
Fishing hook with spools of line,
A baseball, clean, that once was mine;
Cocoon of unknown origin,
A slipper that had lost its twin;
A picture of his siblings, four;
A slightly dried-up apple core;
Three snowflakes from this year’s winter;
That evil wand that renders splinters;
A lock of someone else’s hair,
And eyes from his first Teddy Bear;
Little, tiny scrap of rope,
Tied about a chip of soap;
A Matchbox car with just two wheels,
Five pennies no one dares to steal;
A paper-clip that’s still unspoiled;
A fist-sized ball of aluminum foil.
All such things—so meaningful,
In burlap sack with cord tight-pulled.
I wondered then, if I possessed,
A sim’lar sack or treasure chest;
Perhaps my pen would be a start…
Paper, wine and a broken heart.
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