Some say that I’m not of these times.
I’m lost in recollections.
Some hear bells but I hear chimes.
I don’t ask for directions.
Now some would like to define me
as nothing but a hoarder.
But I see things that they don’t see.
And everything has order.
While they see piles and tons of crap,
each thing has special meaning.
An eight foot stack of magazines
they only see as leaning.
Each item has its history.
My memories are not crimes.
Inside each life’s a mystery.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
There’s baseball cards and movie stills
and paperbacks from France,
a shoebox full of teenage frills,
a corsage from the dance.
I even saved the glove from when
I shook a singer’s hand.
I don’t even recall his name,
but, man, he had some band.
I even have the knife and fork
saved from my dad’s last supper.
And here’s the poison bottle’s cork.
Not everything’s an upper.
See, everything is organized
by places, deeds and times.
In tins and jars I realized
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
Here’s a sack of balls I caught
while sitting in the stands.
And check out all these postcards bought
and sent from foreign lands.
Got photographs of family members
going back a century.
Yes, there’s some no one remembers.
But to toss is blasphemy.
Boxes labeled, cartons tabled,
bags and bags in many places.
Yes my movements are disabled,
but in all things I see faces.
Uncles used these decks of cards,
grandmas wore these jewelry shards,
Every word in this collection rhymes.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
