does anyone even know i'm still here?
covered in every holiday imaginable -
easter, christmas, halloween, even the last owner's menorah.

i'm full of dust
and i'm not sure of
the last time i saw light
from under the collection
of all things forgotten.

these curtains
that hang over my edge
have got psychedelic swirls
of orange and brown.
i can't tell
if it's *****
or a design.

eyes peer up
over my ledge
periodically, but
no one seems to see me
buried beneath
the mountainous
memories that i've collected.

loan gloves call out
for their partners
and their voices go hoarse
over the years,
but they never quit.
my ears grow tired of
their low pleading groans.

prized possessions
that once put human's
eyes aglow now sit
in sorrow and stew in the
realization that they have
truly been forgotten,
much like myself.

i remember the hands
that cut me
from an old oak
in mississippi.
i wonder if those hands
remember me.