This was meant for you,
irrespective of the sheer effluvia
of antique citrine snowmen
buttons that I sifted through
as well as horizontal congo tetra
I appraised time and again.
The burning profusion
of ambidextrous cricket gear
with which I practiced cover drives,
the Niagara of archtop mandolins
I untuned with bleeding ear,
the overunholstered chef’s knives.
Pointedly, achingly for you, and you,
if not strictly alone, at least
in a group of viable candidates
that were then subject to
an admittedly negligently policed
psychometric garden maze.
As you are busy detaining stopped
comptois clocks, or swiping with cotton
crochet miming gloves a verdegris
rhino bust wall mount dropped
from casadeco wallpaper and forgotten,
no imbued gratitude is a guarantee.
So take it and be gone, tuck it in your
jellyfishskin napsack, between an abject
foil of lozenges and a radiator key.
I have no need for it any more,
given its dimensions, aspect,
and that it was never meant for me.