My nightstand carries a collection of
Jetsam, cast adrift when waters were wild.
The things they took off before making love
To me are ever-so-neatly compiled
In that special corner, should their owners
Ever decide they need the stray hair pin,
The rogue left earring, that scrunchie of hers.
Yet somehow the pile never seems to thin,
New nights of passion leaving deposits
That sensible mornings somehow forget.
I'm left feeling confused by this, 'cause it's
Some kind of sign I don't understand yet.
So I'll continue sorting carefully
Until such time that someone will claim me.