I tipped the drawer on its side,
dumped its guts onto the table,
watched a kaleidoscope of forgotten
things tumble, arrive, rest in silence.
There they were: subway tokens,
their brass faces dulled with time,
tokens of small rebellions—choosing
what train to take, or not take.
Beside them, arcade tickets lay sprawled,
whispering of blinking lights,
joy exchanged for plastic trinkets,
laughter loud enough to last years.
What is this odd treasury,
this currency of discarded moments?
Proof I moved through places
split seconds I didn’t name important.
When did I start measuring my life
in what I kept and what I spent?
Nothing fits well in these hands,
but I hold it anyway.
The small, the silly, the saved.
All of it insists: remember me.