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