a cardboard box
where somebody
had written goodwill
in fat red block letters
and someone else
had scratched it out
with black.
it held an envelope
of cancelled checks,
several journals
aborted after
the first few pages,
a dozen drugstore
snapshots of some
unremarkable sunset
held together with
a rusty paper clip
and smelling faintly
of formaldehyde.
a xerox of a poem
about larks and flowers
by joseph stalin,
a pair of shoelaces
still wrapped in
yellowed woolworths
cellophane, a bakelite
art deco letter opener,
seven pennies,
a .22 caliber bullet,
a sandstone pebble,
the front section
of a newspaper
from 1964 with
a feature story
about hells angels.
a mouse had gnawed
an entrance to the box
built a nest of shredded
tax returns, left behind
a scattering of little turds.
some white granules
he did not remember.
were they arsenic,
salt, or sugar?
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