JUNK

Why do I keep tarnished souvenir spoons

Limp sheets of music of never played tunes

Dolls of my Gran’s with their cracked waxen faces

Shelves full of books that my Kindle replaces.

Portraits on walls with unfashionable frames

In sepia tones and of unrecalled names

Albums of photos assembled with care

So easy right now to just digitally share.

The lamp from Mao’s China we carted along

To find them already for sale in Hong Kong

The rug called flokati we purchased in Greece

That still smells of sheep with its long tangled fleece.

Suspicion runs deep that my flawed DNA

Keeps putting my home into wild disarray

In which case, consoled, this most probably means

The mess just occurs ‘cause I’m wearing these genes.

1984, revised 2018

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