In my desk drawer
are broken things,
bits of what were,
hopes of what could be.

It’s a journal without words
where a red paper clip
holds nothing together,
and a tape measure
never reached the length
of a bookshelf.

Tucked in a corner
is a faded love letter from my husband,
a few words about roses, and
how beautiful I was at seventeen.  

Sticky notes lay scattered
in confetti colors of green,
pink, yellow, and blue
waiting for ink instead
of just taking up space.

I should clean it out…
send most of it to a waste basket,
but not every treasure box holds gold.

Mine is a cluttered drawer
filled with broken things, the
archaeological site of a dreamer
with a catalogue of stories to tell.