Found Things
Catherine Moran

These things sometimes a pain,
always more,
always carrying,
always finding,
always looking down,
her army pants good and useful for their many large pockets.

Cut glass from a syringe cut her reaching in,
forgetting what was there,
syringes being a favourite find,
only the old kind
With the thin clear cylinder
that once held something nice and warm
like demerol or morphine.

Laid them out to be seen anew, repositioned, fingered, as she was wont to do
with Things.