by Mike L. Utley There is a place for thingsThat don’t belong inOther placesThat sere and weatheredTrunk that hunkers lupine-likeAmid dust-addled attic shadowsWood split and gougedWith time and neglectIron bands and fittingsA crumble of rustLockless clasp brokenFrom endless breechesAnd pryingsI should haveReplaced that lockEons agoThe ill-fitting lidIs too looseMore decorationThan functionAnd tends to rattleOf its own accordMuch …







