She calls and thinks it's lost
in the couch, a large silver hoop
here, things disappear
I tackle the space
between the cushions
despite my doubt
it appears lodged under the arm
and I hold it like an injured bird
in my palm--how convenient
like a dog marking the hydrant
I will never return a forgotten
treasure she lays claim,
it's not worth
anything, nice try.
I enjoy my private collection
of home made necklaces, rings,
room keys that wind up
on my property, aging
begging tarnish--
like bones sunning in the sand.
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