Untitled

It becomes

(Or doesn't)

I've left artifacts behind.

Unearth them from the mess of your room,

lift them from under heaps:

shirts and socks

and books and papers.

Look back on them fondly if

(and when)

your prospects take you far from

this city.

Mixed cds

black with grooves inlaid--

a clever homage

to trendy vinyls.

(This isn't middle school.)

White paper bag once stuffed

with 14 packs of gum,

a pack a day,

since you quit

smoking.

Long white stitch

sewn

into your favorite shirt

when you looked up

sadly

fingering that tear

in the sleeve.

Slip into it and

(irregular tracks

pull across your skin)

remember me.

I wish I could be there to see

(a settler displaced)

the smile rest on your lips

like some satisfied archaeologist

stumbling upon a

secret

history.