by Daniel Peterson

Closet shelves,
the little civilizations
our mothers create
to cradle our histories,
that now list,
lifeless in space,
like capsized vessels
filled with near-artifacts,
where pictures of me,
jelly beans,
nickels, dimes,
precious medals,
and cups pour out
plastic beads,
buttons, signs,
and ancient languages,
there frozen,
with Captain Solo,
the Legos and folded notes,
portraits of pride
that fare better through time
than I,
too faded and resigned,
and compliant
are my corners,
the edges bent;
I wrinkled
and rendered myself
to the shape of every box –


Posted on 12/27/2005
Copyright © 2023 Daniel Peterson

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