I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
or for anyone. It would just be about the blue striped sheet,
lying out on the rarely cut grass,
marked with sweat
and the cracked white plates stacked up in a wagon,
rust hugging the inner corner like the cobwebs
that cling to the shoebox full of yarn dolls, blue and red and green,
tucked away on the top shelf in your closet, gathering dust,
the palm-sized yellowing cucumber leaves,
wrinkled, as if recoiling from the drops of oil
that fall from the black grill,
peaking out from the crack in your sidewalk,
the imprints of billion year old stars on the domed ceiling, the whirring
of the cassette player as the tape spins methodically inside,
and about the wooden handle of the brush, worn from overuse,
soft bristles like the fur
of the stuffed cow
with a pink heart for its tail.