(If) Not for You
You are copper pennies dropped into a large copper bowl
You are not a junkyard dog with a large bark but missing teeth
You are not Memorial Day
You are a patchwork quilt
You are not the running toilet or the knob that makes it stop
You are not purple but you are sage mixed with grey
You are my morning stretches
You are not plastic
You are not fleece blankets
You are not a stranger’s snores
You are the patch of hair on Lucy’s left foot
You are Sunday mornings
You are LA rain
You are not the deflated airbags of my crashed automobile
You are the sound of the dryer on its starting cycle
You are the rainbow feedback when the tracking does not work
You are the green smelling puddle, clumped with dirt
You are not a piece of string from the sleeve of my gifted sweater
You are a little ant
You are not a human giant
You are not a chipped cup
You are not my everything
You are my sister’s diary book I read at age eleven
You are not apple skin or peach fuzz or pit less grapes
You are not a sleigh bed
You are a ripe pear
You are the squeaky hinge of the kitchen door
You are my mattress on the floor
You are not a solar eclipse
You are not a guitar
You are not a liar
You are a tiny tea kettle
You are small black tapes contained in a shoe box
You are a number two pencil with the eraser partially used
You are not the cold water in the shower head
You are pando the trembling giant, the forest of trees that stem from one root
You are not foggy spectacles
You are not the salt left on the table
You are the ice left in the glass
You are the watermelon dripping
You are the color red while I rub my eyes
You are the waste basket brimming over with crumpled poems
You are the bottles by my window frame
You are the orange curtains closed
You are bees
You are not the footsteps in the hallway
You are not the broken ceiling fan
You are not the ticking pilot light
You are the wet wood
You are the yellow stolen winter hat
You are the Motown tape I took from Ivory
You are the accidents that leave a stain
You are a pocket watch
You are the smell of mints
You are paperback
You are the scar under my kneecap
You are not concrete
You are not the quarter moon
You are not a basin left out in storms
You are my eyes when they close without squinting
You are the vines
You are staring cows
You are the sharp scissors that clip off the thorns
You are the music box from my Nana
You are the picture of the desert
You are not sweat
You are not lavender
You are a pine cone kept in an overnight bag for safe keeping
You are two socks that are the same length but different colors
You are not a Thursday
You are not a reusable bag
You are smooth like a pebble stone
You are a bird on a lake
You are mumbled laughter
You are not sleepless nights
You are not the glowing sign
You are a white lie
You are the clipping of my smallest fingernail