I think a lot
of all the bodies
this weathered old soul
must have tarried
through by now—but
(probably due
to the tyranny
of memory)
somehow not
often enough
of the opposite:
what battle-scarred hoards,
all strange
and complex,
have tossed their lots
in with this
broom closet body,
seizing it,
razing it,
building it up—
then selling it off
at a loss
or a profit?
