A Stranger’s Home

By Paul Tobin

 

The partially yet never to be fully realized Rubik’s cube

(what a colorful puzzle, that one)

The dozens of collected bottle caps, each containing precisely one good time

(each collecting dust)

My priceless two-dollar knit, drawn-on, yellow hacky sack

(from a friendship, once profound, now gone)

A perfect cd, the cleverest of gifts, personalized and kissed with wit and ink

(that will make me cry)

(before I listen to it)

I’ve filled this place with so many things,

and yet nothing I want.

There are no friends on my couch,

nor a loving soul to hold dear,

no father…

no child…

(save this one)

 

no Reese’s pieces…

 

merely trinkets and intangible memories

carefully lost amidst a stranger’s home,

as am I.