Duplicates

Roll after roll of tape.
Multiples of gloss-gray duct,
dun-colored masking, double-sided
for crafting. So much tape!
Miles more than what’s needed
to attach things that ask it.

Which brings me to batteries.
Every diameter’s here.
Slide fingers through drawer’s cache,
charged-candy clack,
potential to power the devices
of the entire apartment floor.

Still going: stores of Q-tips
and cotton balls, off-brand
sanitary napkins, vanilla lotions
and hair products to thicken,
the disposable Daisies, their pink
faded to skin tone several years out.

What is it about these items
that fills me with sadness?
Maybe it’s the ease with which
they slip the mind, so innocuous
as to compel repeat purchase,
copies common as air.

Then there’s the issue of volume.
That so much of something
can mean so little; subtract
even. Yet still I hold on
to these needling reminders,
their earthly weight.

Which brings me to you,
the memory of your hand
casual on my hip this morning,
how good that felt. Plus all
the other memories: drawers filled,
sweet hold, single source.

--me