It is the high rise

Of the nightstand.

That is protected from the ghosts and spirits  by the

Presence of the staunch nightlight.

It’s inhabitants are a complex group

Of

Strangers.

Fighting for space every minute,

Every time a new tenant moves in.

There is a circus of combs and

A briar patch of safety pins that

Are too agressive for their own good.

Hanging above all this,

Is a chewed piece of gum,

Watching the disorder.

This is a sanctuary for scissors.

(Of both the right & left varities)

The  in the junk drawer is

Made of playing cards,

That easily replicates linoleum.

&

Because of this,

(And the inertia created by the constant

Motion of

The drawer being carefully opened.

And then slammed shut)

Individual cotton-balls

And loose pen-caps,

Have a hard time sitting still.

Ticking watches

That long ago,

Ceased all ticking,

Lay like landmines,

In an array of random anonymity.

Across this wasteland of miscellaneous forbidden fruits.