Ten Years and a Coffeepot

Dogs bury bones in earth,
up-end flowers that were live
now dead and wilting fast.

Buried bones have shrouds
of creeping phlox that cover scars
in earth like buried pasts.

Here we sit bone-deep in cluttered rooms
with things we cannot throw away.

I might need that broken coffeepot
or you’ll find cause to use
that splintered fishing rod someday.

I have, I am,
one shoe of a pair, and worn.
The years have passed, now there’s time
but nothing left to say.