I’d forgotten until now
the collection of toys
in the basement
I never played with
over the few years
we lived in that house.
They gathered so high
you could wade through them
with no repetitions.
If I had to name some
I would start with the KISS doll,
Gene Simmons with his tongue out
and all, already stripped
nude, his clothes probably
in another pile. The matchbox
cars in cigar boxes,
paint chipped and peeling.
Raggedy Andy reclining. Voltron
or a cheap knock-off
approximation. Eventually I left
my Transformers down there,
assuming some in-between shape—
half machine, half invalid.
Over time I amassed
a vast collection of playing
cards, some miniature
size, just right for my hands,
including the deck depicting
the Eagle Mascot
of the 1984 Olympics.
And don’t forget the deck
with the figures of Michael Jackson
before the fire singed his hair,
posing on every face card.
I guess I’ll count
my guitar with the broken
strings, as well as the cast
from when I broke my ankle
playing baseball on the pavement
with its collection of multi-colored
names, except we kept
the cast too long, and it became
overrun with mold.
I still wanted to keep it,
just like I wanted to keep
the Tastykake wrappers my friend
sent from Philadelphia
to Seattle because we couldn’t
get them there. Just like
the jar of candies from France
I only ever ate a few of,
still propped on my dresser.
Just like the books I ordered
from Scholastic Book Services
that I never got around
to reading, having moved
onto other things
by the time they arrived.
And I’ve moved on
from the basement by now,
obviously, although I still
crave from time to time
the diet chocolate sodas
I only remember drinking
from the refrigerator
in the corner of the room.
Joshua Keiter 