Junk Drawer

I wish I lived in a junk drawer
amongst useful things.
Bread ties of loaves gone by.
Spare laces for a shoe.
Mismatched batteries.
Spent cigarette lighters.
A zipppo, or two.
It is a chaotic emporium
without the order
of those other boring drawers.
There's nothing interesting
about a fork or a spoon.

Old remote controls for forgotten appliances.
Broken watches.
Coupons expired.
Two dollar lottery ticket winners
never cashed. Super glue.
Ticket stubs to movies past
from dates with people lost.
Nails and tacks.
A needle and thread
for things to be mended.
Sparklers, lip gloss.
Carriage bolts for a bed. 

Insulated from the world
in this private penthouse.
In a drawer. In a room. In a house.
Never to be disturbed
except for something important
that only I can fix or do.
Not bothered by a winter mouse
who avoids this drawer
for fear amongst its many things,
there's poison, glue.

What a hero complex I would have
if stowed there.
What great importance and value.
Maybe I'd run for mayor.
What an inflated ego carousing
with scissors that call themselves sheers, nutcrackers, ribbons, bracelets,
and taco sauce packets.
Orphaned sockets from the toolbox.
Bottlecaps from fancy beers.
Flower seeds never planted,
left in paper envelopes.
Broken hearts, tears.

Box knives. Razor blades.
Candlesticks. Cufflinks.
Turn signals bulbs, one of two.
The garter belt you caught at that wedding,
long ago.
An unopened fortune cookie
that is madly in love
with a soy sauce packet.
What peace amongst these
resting, useful things.
These eclectic mementos.
Costume jewelry, wedding rings.

A junk drawer is a memory drawer.
There is memory in junk.
In ornate pens that have bled their ink
writing love letters.
Dried rose pedals, safety pins. 
Of business cards for a handyman —
a plumber, a jeweler, a bondsman.
A key to an old house not forgotten
where we used to make love.
A lock without a key.
A key without a lock.
An earing or two without a match.
A button.
A memoriam.
A wedding invitation.
A badge, a sticker, a pirate's eyepatch.

Stray beans. Tape. Spare change.
Phone chargers coiled like snakes.
Sleeping phones with pictures of lover's past.
Some lamented, some mistakes. 
Children, when they smiled,
that grew too fast.
How important those phones
were once to you.
Too important to discard
except to the junk drawer.

Of all places in the house
where I'd want to be,
even more than in the attic,
I'd want to be there with you.
Maybe we are both junk
in some way.
Falling apart.
We have broken arms,
or eyes, or hearts,
that someday someone will glue.
But there we will be
on a bed of cotton balls,
making love until they do.