~

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?
did the drawer have a brother?
or perhaps a sister too?
what did it fit inside,
what was it meant to hold?
a little boy’s toys
or a girl’s shiny shoes,
a box full of crayons
or an artists tools,
a father’s colorful ties
or a mother’s sachet,
did it hold the silken threads
of her childhood ballet?
did it hold a sister’s hopes
or a brother’s pride,
a woman's negligee
for a very special night?
did it even hold a key,
and was it to her lover’s heart;
or maybe like the broken drawer
those too were shattered dreams?

maybe we are all
just discarded drawers!
the trinkets we hold,
things we need to let go;
the words we can’t forget,
the whispers that grow old.
we paint by numbers,
we color with words,
a canvas full of thoughts,
tumbles out from our heads;
words we’d like to recall,
lines we’d like to forget,
the words never said,
ones we later regret;
perhaps at the time
to us did not occur,
one day we’d hope to be forgiven
for offending with our words!

don’t let me feel useless
without the rest of the frame;
don’t cast me aside
or leave me in the rain.
take this broken old drawer
some nails and some glue,
help me find the answers;
i know i fit when i’m with you.
slide me in a work bench,
i can hold the tools;
slip me in a bureau,
i will not feel used.
place me in a vanity,
or kitchen cabinet,
in a chest so full of hope,
dreams not come true... just yet.
just don’t leave me here
where I've been thrown,
where i’ll grow cold and die.
i’m not designed to be alone,
left here on the side;
what good can come within my frame
if i’m not made a part,
for a drawer without a purpose
is a man without a heart.

i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

~

*postscript.

truly...
i found a broken drawer
by the side of the road;
discarded in haste
was it left by you?

my wife breathes life into old wood furniture.  with each bureau, hope chest or buffet brought into her workshop i wonder what it held... because everything and everyone has a story to tell. what would these old pieces tell us if they could speak?  and what do they tell us about ourselves?