In the definition, we had reason to believe

was the fortuitousness of history.

Who has not filled a cookie jar

with a conglomeration of old coins,

pockets-full of pennies, put away for another season,

and in the hustle-bustle-comings-goings-

meanderings of our lives, forgotten

their whereabouts; even their existence?

Intention, a heightened awareness of oneself

only rarely plays a part. A step backwards.

And one may then examine objectively

all those years of collecting:

Some rare cynosure, for example,

to which one returns repeatedly.

There is there an almost religious sense,

an awe that one may possess, perhaps, a coin

with an image of the Cretan Labyrinth,

or a seal that some Sumerian nobleman

utilized to ensure the privacy of his correspondence.

Small objects. Actually, a museum of one’s own.

But it is the discards: the flotsam and jetsam of civilized society

that more appropriately surrounds, like some special article

of clothing: an outfit of occasion

never again needed, and now hangs,

as if dispirited, in total alienation,

just taking up space in the far

dark recesses of a cedar closet.

It is that which now assumes a most prominent position

in our armamentarium, an ornamentation about which

one may shrug, but shrug in vain,

for it is that part of you

you may not ever completely, complacently disengage.

So be it. In the aftermaths of our society,

it is this that will come to haunt

our descendants with its significance.