Foreign Objects

Sometimes...

sometimes this life is a foreign object to me.

It's like something shiny but odd-looking,

that one comes across on the beach.

You pick it up

- two fingered because of the sand and the muck -

And notice right away that there's that one wicked sharp edge...

too sharp, in fact -

to smooth with the fat skin of your thumb.

But by using the edge of that soft old warm sweatshirt,

protection is gained as well as a glorious and unexpected sheen.

Thus pocketed, the mysterious find is safeguarded amongst agates, sand dollars, purple lint and torn grocery lists that you saved because the last item read:

"and I love you, my darling."

november 2010 © martha lee phelps