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
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
The drawer being carefully opened.
And then slammed shut)
And loose pen-caps,
Have a hard time sitting still.
That long ago,
Ceased all ticking,
Lay like landmines,
In an array of random anonymity.
Across this wasteland of miscellaneous forbidden fruits.