A jar hung from the mailbox.
The reason why still eludes me.
Not a note, sign, or
any other marker
to indicate a purpose. Just a pale collection
of dusty snow at the bottom.
I dropped money therein,
a collection tin
for every aspect of my life
that left before I did:
credit cards,
grocery lists,
a cell phone that I had kept
switching on and off, paring the battery
down slowly
hoping to catch one bar of signal
that I could use to call...well,
whatever number would have me.
I emptied my pockets
and filled the glass,
content to see all the items I clung to daily
put in their place and
summed up in the jar,
a trite heap of inconsequential atoms.
Time for me to start living
like the world that contains me. Besides,
I wouldn't need any of it where I was going.
The only thing I kept
was one key,
as my father and mother would likely be upset
if I had to kick down their door.
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