Misplaced

Find a claddagh ring
after spilling
a drawer on the carpet,
more tarnished
than before,
tiny and bronze,
less shine–
more fragile, like us…
Fits only
on the ring finger,
strange fingers
pulling scars
from cardboard boxes,
pushing old
cameras into trash
bags–what good
are those snapshots,
anyway? What good
do those events
do for us now?
They don’t make
us stronger
or wiser,
only softer, like
limestone…

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