The treasure chest in the basement belongs to no one;
why do we keep such things
packratted into our corners, unlocked and empty.
People here claim nothing, big and small alike
words bob in the air suspended only by breath,
the great disappointment of youth
I am also guilty of.
Action: to lugclunk it up to my bedroom and
fill it with possessions: the pages of good books, borrowed
clothing snipped to bits like with shoe box art, or
to nestle into it like a cat in search of warmth,
who slinks in through the tunnels and crooks
formed by comforter when
a human body rolls over in bed.
What draws the sense to space yet leaves
the body craving comfort.
When I wake in the mornings,
gold eye slits blink from within the sheets.
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