Roll after roll of tape.
Multiples of gloss-gray duct,
double sided for crafting.
So much; miles more
than what’s needed for attaching.
And batteries: every diameter’s here.
Slide fingers through drawer’s cache,
potential to power my apartment
plus next door’s. Also
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 match my skin.
Faintly sad, the ease with which
some things slip the mind,
so innocuous as to compel repeat purchase,
copies common as air.
That so much of something
can mean so little; subtract even.
Yet still I hold on to these needling reminders,
their weird vows, earthly weight.
One day I’ll just toss it all,
lift off, tuck into some cloud—
no name, no gall.