Coupons and keys,
my wife's practicalities and back door fears,
scissors and twisties to
keep bread fresh, the reason
we freeze communion all year.
In a white wire basket we cherish
thoughtfulness, Chile's gift cards,
one hundred dollars for Menards,
scraps of paper with once meaningful numbers,
all by this December forgotten.
But useful in this resurfacing,
sifting through needles and tape,
locks without combinations,
and scrape the rust off an orange handled
screwdriver, pointed downward,
useful in this mess
is every single thing,
removed from the place we've dumped them,
from the labels we've hung on them,
their uniqueness restored to them.
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