when i'd be asked in the past
'do you collect anything?'
as a child i'd feel an obligation

my friends collected buttons,
christmas ******* rings,
compiled shells,
or gas station keyrings

so i collected can tops
and squishy toys from beach side shops
pointy pointless scraps of metal
that now sit in a dusty jar
and stuffed lizards and seahorses
in a box under an old bed

and when they said
they didn't get it
i knew i didn't either
but i'd say the metal
is sentimental
it really is a keeper
honest

and now i'm older
i'm no objector
to being a collector
promise

because in a box
inside my heart
beyond the dust,
i'm honest,
i keep a stash
tied in a sash
of all the things
i've sprinkled with stardust

of all the memories
of days i loved
and too ones fogged with miseries

of scars formed from thunderstorms
for thorns are as much of a blessing
as the caressing from surrounding roses

of people who loved me
and people i despised
of eyes i glanced at once and
should i see again
would go unrecognised

for when i'm collecting moments
i am collecting lives
and there is no better way
to be alive
than revising every moment
as if it were chosen
by you
from that gas station
instead of just through obligation

Keyring's clinking on my cut time stride
under lights, buzzing islands in the ink sea night.
Slink away from my murky years,
                  they're piling up
and I'm hunched, walking dumb
          across the hazard yellow lines.

Behind me
          the night just rolls up
almost outruns me to my front doorstep.
                                                The hungry
hills enclose
                    our mid-size
                    opaque town.

Old partners,
          forgotten crimes we
did and left trails of clues, all gutshot
                                       creep hunching
through this skull
                      beneath a
                      fraying cap.

Keyrings jangle like anxieties
in my chest, humming static in the core of me.
Sinking in to familiar tones;
                  shades purple grey.
And it's cold, striding slow
          through the west side warehouse lots.

Behind me
          the teeming sidewalks
shout half-slurred spears at my back retreating.
                                                The half-light
spills itself
                    on wrinkled,
                    trenching brows.

And out there
          the night just rolls up
to darken the mat by your front doorstep.
                                                You're just a
single thought
                    and several
                    miles away.

One twisted wreath ring
stainless steel, size 8, scratched
******* on right hand

leather wallet, bi-fold, European-style
my father's, my nineteenth birthday
three train tickets, debit card, folded five

five keys, two keyrings
keychain says Budapest, never been
four keys decades older than me
just one, newly cut

headphones, black
one ear doesn't work
wrapped carefully
never tangled

lip balm, mint

coffee receipt

three quarters
four dimes
a nickel

and the understanding
that I've a hell of a long way to go.

On my little key set,
I have a couple things,
I have an Eiffel Tower,
And an angel with wings.

I have a little flashlight,
And a ‘Bazinga’ too,
I have a couple photos,
Which aren’t at all new.

But on my little key set,
I only have 3 keys,
For the house and mail box,
To check when I’m free.

You may start to wonder,
Why are keys so rare,
That’s because these keyrings,
Make me smile and stare.

I got the Eiffel Tower,
In Paris, you see,
And the angel from my mother,
Who said she thought of me.

A flashlight for the night,
As I’m afraid of the dark,
And ‘Bazinga’ from my parents,
I promise it’s not that stark.

Now for the two photos,
They’re from a birthday event,
One is with my mother,
Who didn’t know how much it meant.

The other is with my cousins,
Four to be exact,
They’re all such good people,
And that statement is a fact.

All these things mean something,
They keep me at great ease,
And that is why my key set,
Has so little keys.