I KEEP MY SECRETS IN THE SOCK DRAWER, NEXT TO WINTER.
The hangers whisper rumors in a lemony clatter.
I FORGET WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO REMEMBER.

Dust rehearses sunlight like a patient babysitter.
My clock coughs politely, pretending it doesn’t matter.
I KEEP MY SECRETS IN THE SOCK DRAWER, NEXT TO WINTER.

“The story I will tell has butter,”
my friend laughed because the page began to chatter.
I FORGET WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO REMEMBER.

The hallway hums a tune about a sweater
that never fit, though I insisted it grew fatter.
I KEEP MY SECRETS IN THE SOCK DRAWER, NEXT TO WINTER.

A spoon salutes the mug like a tiny knight-errant letter,
and the sink applauds with drips that softly patter.
I FORGET WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO REMEMBER.

If memory is a coat, mine’s missing a button or better,
so I button the air and call that clever chatter.
I KEEP MY SECRETS IN THE SOCK DRAWER, NEXT TO WINTER.
I FORGET WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO REMEMBER.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Michael Morrow during our annual fundraiser.]