Surely you have them, things on the dresser,
a beer mug from college, a cracked figurine
of an angel your sister gave you,
a small wooden box with special whatnots in it:
a token from a Scandinavian trolley, a peso,
your father’s cuff link, just one, a bit of ribbon
from your wedding invitation, a heart shaped rock.
Maybe on your dresser there are a picture or two.
An old yellow and blue photo of your parents
in the eighties, wearing brown, and one of
you and your sweetheart near the corner
of a house the year after your honeymoon,
looking wise and perfect and a little unsure,
with your dog, dead now, but in the photo
all there, though he does not know why.
Something about that photo is still in you,
you always want it there. You look at it.
Every time you dust the dresser
you move the box, the angel, the pictures,
the mug. You would never think
of not having them. They live there.
Imagine yourself, surrounded by
the ordinary little things in this life,
sitting here on God’s dresser.
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