You cannot help but hold
the plastic lunch pail, emblazoned
with the whole Sesame Street
gang, even if rips and wear
amputate most,
that you find hidden
in your dead mother's garage,
but you hesitate
when your calluses
meet its latches.
The stench of sardines
that pokes its jaundice-yellow
eyes through the seems,
and beckons you to gulp
and wade in its pool
of sulfur and stale Franzia,
makes your fingers recede.
It is best not to open it here,
but do not leave . Either click
and unseal the lid under a tree,
or shatter it with a bat,
but somehow those memories
must air out.
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