i keep on counting what the jar contains.
the landlord's texted twice and means to call.
there’s something to be said for what remains.
the fridge holds mustard, which more or less explains
the general philosophy of it all.
i keep on counting what the jar contains.
a wheat penny turns up. my grandfather’s veins
ran thick with joy for these. i let it fall
there’s something to be said for what remains.
i thought by now i’d have a little more to show. the plains
of middle age were not supposed to sprawl
like this. i keep on counting what the jar contains.
the bus pass expired. it’s fine. the fog complains
against the window in its usual drawl.
there's something to be said for what remains:
four dollars, eleven cents. some small terrains
of copper, silver, verdigris. that’s all.
i keep on counting what the jar contains.
there’s something to be said for what remains.
