by March 12, 2019 0 comments

What sort of chap collects pocket knives,
consigned to basements, sheds and drawers?

Taken out, looked at and put back, sometimes
in an original box with a wildlife scene.

Their service often limited to the laceration
of writing paper and deconstruction of boxes.

Recipients of tiny drops of 3 in 1 oil to assure
smooth opening and a decisive snap,

their owners holding them as time travelers
to youthful and carefree days.

What sort of chap remembers the ancient kitchen
in which he watched Dad smoke, learned
to say “More soup, please,”

and received a red pocket knife, all for his own,
not knowing that he would someday dream of still
having it?

editors note:

The sort who likes to have memories on hand. (We welcome Phil to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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