Things That Remember the Floor

Open lid, and the air changes shape—

a hinge sighs like something deciding to forgive.

Inside: a crowded history of play.

A plastic truck leans against a broken crown,

both equally important once,

both slightly dusty now.

Strings from forgotten puppets

tangle with puzzle pieces that no longer agree

on what they were meant to complete.

There is a faint echo of motion here,

not sound exactly, but after-sound—

the residue of spinning wheels,

the memory of small arguments between toys

about who got left out last time.

A lid closes, but not all the way,

as if even the box refuses to pretend

everything inside is finished.