Things

Things
like the soft red twist that came off in my hand when I opened the plastic milk bottle this morning
the empty can of chock full o’ nuts
the song that won’t stop playing in my head because I heard it last week and again twenty years ago
the people and that small cat
the forgotten to be found debris of collected life

the apartment fresh with the smell of thick white paint
and no furniture
it was new and so was I
for as long as it took to dry and fill
with things
the things I touched and used and played with
that small cat chasing that bit of curled red plastic across the kitchen floor

none of it or them or him remains
except in still morning snatches of touch and smell
when it all comes back
for a moment
until I step outside
and look into the three o’clock sky
and pause on a star so brilliant
and forget again