I am a magpie.
My fleshy nest is feathered in flotsam.
of thoughts, scavenger of curios and the curious.
Like Mary Kate Danaher,
I must have my things about me,
until the fate of the new familial order
ascends with flourish; mutiny, without asking.
The manor, ready for auction, is shiny,
stripped and greased, for meticulous scrutiny.
The coronation flask, the one with the crown
and manacled G and E, is taken down, emptied
of pencils, writing, and worth, and marked,
so appropriately, “Goodwill”.
I, too, am carefully wrapped, boxed,
and labeled “assorted secrets and stories”,
a discreetly forgotten casket, stowed
dowerless, in a thrift store of dirt.
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