I find
not many lighters and too many cheap shades,
lain against a loose-hinged trifocal,
Expensive, lost and necessary,
upon the flip-top notebook
bound with crushed spiral wire.
And within, the gibberish
of a young girl’s day -
there are holes above the i’s
and myriad loves to Matthew.

I find
a green squeeze coin purse -
an old man’s plastic strongbox -
scavenged of coin
that only three washers remain,
three washers and a button,
nested in the scarves,
in the acrylic scarves
and the coarse wool plaid ones.

And I find gloves,
brown, amber and worn,
and taking them for my own,
slipping them on, I find
my fingers curl in the fashion of yours
and the momentary warmth
of your hands upon mine.