Things

Wheat pennies, war-time nickels, mercury 

Dimes pilfered from a restaurant's register,

Hand-picked shells long-glued to a glass ashtray, 

Birthday and valentine cards with quatrains,

One bronze, bulbous-bellied Buddha clasping 

A leather necklace purchased in Big Sur,

Books upon books upon books, too many—

The bullet shells of my first and second deer,

A hawk’s feather, a Grecian arrowhead,

A Polaroid of an open drawbridge,

A compass engraved with a Thoreau quote,

Two model cars, a paper plane, three small boats 

With busted prows and toppled masts, key chains

Of saints and Christ nailed fast to a crucifix,

A poker chip, four tickets for Twelfth Night, 

A grand piano in a shadow box,

Shards of blood quartz, chunks of amethyst, 

And a globe that can fit in newborn’s palm:

When I die, divide it all amongst yourselves,   

These things that have come, in their ways, to fill

The empty edges of my bookshelves and sills. 

But let me be buried with my old Minié balls!