In all the bric-a-brac of drawers
behind the buttons and penless pen tops
underneath the broken wallets
and anonymous keys
I search for the something
I search for you

Inside this wooden rectangle
of hair grips, combs and badges
of batteries, spent and lonely
of pencils, tacks and string
I find something of yours,
a message on the back,
scribbled on a receipt in biro:
“Someone rang, told them you’d be back at four. Love Anna”

And like a time machine
I am back where I belong

Cotton reels and elastic bands
bind me in confusion
You are the thread that allows me
to avoid the dread
of trying to cut the Gordian knot
of my being

© Michael Clifford 10/22