was it a gold bracelet box of chocolates
or fancy pink sunglasses you once
carried into this house?
after you broke your handle
you could have been thrown out
or died a slow death in the cupboard
a flattened silver flap buried forgotten
the day I ran out of writing paper
you volunteered to help
and so you and I made this poem
now if you’re disposed
at least I’ll be with you
folded into the trash heap
of this mostly forgetful world