shuffling through musty lace
was a bad idea for a blue Monday
so many tears
my stomach muscles ached
but there were smiles
captured
in tattered scrapbooks
rife with tickets and pressed flowers
I could not be swayed
from trying to hold something lovely
why did I keep the rusty rivet
next to the dancer in the box
velvet and chrome remembrances
folded next to faded streamers
carrying memory whiffs of cake
I have no gimmick
nothing for you to remember me by
unless you see me as a quilt
pieced together
from all I’ve touched
The Word Rummager 
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