Sticky Old Drawer
memory
sometimes hard to open
like a sticky old wooden drawer
holding a few dry petals
a few slippery hours
delicate as a beige slip
your father’s hat
the aroma of aftershave
the shoes he wore when he left for good
and even though you’d swear you don’t care
that card from your mother
where she was able to be kind
sometimes all that remains
is a sentence, a word
a letter, a comma