your ticket
stubs lie
in the green bowl,
with lint,
and buttons,
old keys,
tossed coins.
a cough drop.
the remnants
of pockets
turned out
when you get
home. threads
of your life,
resting
together,
numbers on
slips of
paper,
uncalled.
how many stories
fade like
ink in the wash,
don't get
told?
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