I opened up the junk drawer
Looking for a pen.
I found everything we’ve ever owned,
Except a working pen.
Three dried-out markers,
A golf course pencil,
A purple crayon,
And a broken stencil.
Fourteen paper clips,
One binder clip,
A bag of rubber bands
That crumble when you grip.
A roll of tape
With no beginning,
Scissors that are somehow
Sticky when they’re spinning.
A glue stick,
A glue gun,
A tube of super glue,
All completely solid,
So they’re mostly there for view.
There’s everything but what I need,
Everything but what I need.
Keys and cords and bottle caps,
But not the thing I came to grab.
There’s everything but what I need,
A museum of domestic debris.
Push it down and shut it fast—
We might need that.
We might need that.
We will never need that.
AA batteries,
AAA batteries,
Dead batteries mixed
With the possibly good batteries.
A charger for a flip phone,
A charger with a bend,
A charger for a camera
We last saw in 2010.
Two USB cables,
An HDMI,
A tiny little adapter
Nobody can identify.
One wired earbud,
The other one is gone,
A remote for a television
That we no longer own.
A screw,
A nail,
A washer,
A spring,
A plastic little bracket
From an unidentified thing.
An Allen key,
A wall hook,
A tiny furniture wheel,
A metal piece that looks important,
So we’re scared to break the seal.
A cabinet knob,
A curtain ring,
A rusty little hinge,
A strip of Velcro covered
In one mysterious orange fringe.
A measuring tape
That only reaches four feet,
And one loose LEGO
Waiting underneath.
There’s everything but what I need,
Everything but what I need.
Nuts and bolts and mystery parts,
A tiny plastic dinosaur.
There’s everything but what I need,
A landfill with a warranty.
Push it down and shut it fast—
We might need that.
We might need that.
Nobody knows what that is.
Ketchup packets,
Mustard packets,
Soy sauce packets too,
Three crushed plastic forks
And a single chopstick used.
Salt and pepper,
Sugar, straws,
A napkin from a place
That closed because of health code laws.
A wine cork,
A bottle opener,
A birthday candle three,
Though no one in this household
Has been three since 2003.
A grocery-list magnet,
A refrigerator clip,
And one fast-food receipt
For a ninety-seven-cent tip.
A hotel key card,
A luggage tag,
Foreign coins inside
A tiny plastic sandwich bag.
A ticket stub,
A raffle ticket,
An arcade token too,
A gift card with a balance
Somewhere between nothing and two.
Expired coupons,
Expired stamps,
An expired membership card,
And an instruction manual
For an appliance in the yard.
A business card
For someone named Ray,
But no one knows who Ray is
Or why we saved it anyway.
There’s everything but what I need,
Everything but what I need.
Receipts and cards and foreign change,
But not one useful thing today.
There’s everything but what I need,
An archaeological discovery.
Push it down and shut it fast—
We might need Ray.
We might need Ray.
We do not know Ray.
Band-Aids with no wrappers,
Wrappers with no Band-Aids,
A cough drop growing fur
From approximately sixth grade.
Some floss picks,
Some cotton swabs,
A tiny tube of cream,
A travel-size hand sanitizer
That has somehow turned green.
Nail clippers,
Old tweezers,
A comb with half its teeth,
A single bobby pin
And another LEGO underneath.
A lens-cleaning cloth,
An eyeglass screw,
And medication instructions
For a person no one knew.
Loose buttons,
Safety pins,
A spool of yellow thread,
A zipper pull belonging
To a jacket that is dead.
A tiny bag of extra parts
That came taped to a chair,
Saved for twelve long years
Just in case the chair needs repair.
A shoelace,
A collar stay,
A buckle from a shoe,
And a little square of fabric
In a slightly different blue.
A marble!
A bell!
A seashell!
A bead!
A tiny plastic cap
We are certain that we need!
A whistle!
A magnet!
A number-nine candle!
A broken keychain flashlight
With a missing side panel!
A clothespin!
A thumbtack!
A dried-up rubber frog!
A little bag of screws
And an expired rabies tag for the dog!
Once a year we empty it
And spread it on the floor.
We make a pile for throwing out
And one for keeping more.
The trash pile has a coupon,
One receipt and half a straw.
Then someone grabs the coupon back
And says, “Hold on, what store was that for?”
We organize the batteries,
We separate every key.
Then dump it all right back again
At approximately three.
There’s everything but what I need,
Everything but what I need.
One hundred random household things,
But not a pen with working ink.
There’s everything but what I need,
A drawer-based family history.
Push it down and lean your weight—
It’s almost shut.
It’s almost shut.
Watch your fingers.
There it goes.
I opened up the junk drawer
Looking for a pen.
I found one in my pocket…
Then put it in the drawer again.