Treasures

I am reminded by your gifts

of Rumpleteaser

a tabby cat

with a black heart on her pink nose

whose tail was unfortunately trimmed

in a gruesome coincidence

of wind and door.

The stump

was too long for a manx

and too short for balance.

She thumped it like a club

when pleased.

Teaser brought us offerings.

Left them respectfully

on bathmat altars

or even –

most memorably –

in the tub.

That one was

abruptly discovered

(and consequently flung)

by toes ready for a shower.

Your treasures are arguably

more useful

or at least acceptable.

I see what drew your eye to:

The elaborate stoppered jars

full of spices long since turned to sand.

The stack of rusted muffin tins.

The cart full of books dismissed

by the library ages ago.

The long knife that cut hundreds of pizzas

before the restaurant closed.

Still, they are the detritus

of someone else's pawed-through life.

Our garage is full of

these leftovers.

I appreciate the sentiment but,

what use have I

for twenty-four inches of

dull blade?