The astrophysicist on the radio says
we’re orbiting a reject star on an impractical rock,
and still I set water to boil,
lay out tomorrow’s clothes,
press the loose tile back into place with my thumb.
I belong to the screws and washers
rattling in the box after assembly is complete,
to the cracked graphite too short for the clutch,
sliding from the tip of the mechanical pencil,
the eraser worn to the metal ferrule,
to copper rivets holding
while the denim gives way around them,
to the spare button stitched inside the shirt hem,
riding there for a decade,
waiting for fabric to fail.
I belong to their patience,
to what waits at the back of the closet,
where nothing is thrown away.