A tissue box of ugly roses sitting askew atop DVDs.
Their broken player’s four short green lines a disturbing lie.

My guide holds children in a painting of orange, black and yellow.
Stevie Ray and Jimmie, a rare photo, on a shelf marred with grime.

A dirty plate where a sandwich is but a memory of homemade bread
And salmon with fennel dust and arugula.

Bieres de la Meuse, the old tile of an art project not yet begun
The gift from my son. Poetry on the mother’s bearing.

A photo of the woman who saved my life, Saint Ann of Santa Monica,
And me, dressed for Halloween.

My mother, in a frame I need to change.
Photos of my two loves, Johnathan and Seane, as children.

The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Box set,
Unplayable, in Irish format.

Stacks of music, CDs, DVDs, relics of near history.
Musical stone coasters.

The palm I ignored, still thriving on the patio.
Boxes. And the mess I’ve ignored for months.

My red sweater, dry on the arm of the couch.
Green sweater, taupe sweater, scarves.

The ugliest wall hanging ever. It was a gift from a friend.
A screwdriver, and some pliers.

Open drawers in the kitchen. Dishes that need to be put away.
Pine boughs gently swaying in the cloudy breeze.

Candles, half burned. Cameras, undeveloped.
A couch unkempt.

Dusty ceiling fan. Beams and screens.
Gift baskets and wine.

All mine. Too much. Mine.

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