Eligibility and Entrants

The inclination of moonbeams lighted the assemblage,
Passing through the clouds.
Lighted the tattered little cabin, more like a box,
barely large enough for a burrowing owl
And rotting from the rippling waves.

Those moonbeams, that sing
But never at me
Never at anyone
They crawl back up from the lake
after being shot as if at a crime scene
Going back home.
They’re always leaving ghastly curiosities
Whistling with offerings,
Lots of strange things
Feeling all of these things

That I pick up during late nights to put in my pockets,
Of my shorts because I always wear shorts
during the midnight rolling tide strolls, like the one I walk now
When the shores are left a little more uneven than the day before.
By the wafture
By the lake’s little hands
A river flow
Without the river
And then there are my hands
A bit more chilly than usual from a lately blooming fall
Which just feels bygone
With it’s chills that shudder me like a performance
Of the ones before
And the rosy cheeks which feel all to the distant
I’m just a fan, who just watches me
Up on the stage
Shows gonna end sometime
Well I suppose it already has
But it’s still alive
Since I’m a critic
Going to write a review
Past always under review

But there, there was something new in the sand, foreign
That box, aforementioned, in its dilapidated pomp
Well, only pompous to me.
I walked to it
picked it up
And on its brown roof, it read
“Hideaway”
in big font written in black bold Sharpie,
on a piece of blue tape,
a style of lettering that harkened back to older times.

Perhaps if, whoever made such a little wooden thing,
Cared about it enough
They wouldn’t have let it float
An ocean away
It’s miraculous it made it

So there I stood with it in my hands
And I typically don’t know
What to do with miraculous things
They can be peaceful
Soft
Scarce
Can be full of hope
Love
Trust
I typically don’t know what to do
With such things
I do alright sometimes
But then there’s the others
It’s always patterns when it comes to souvenirs
It’s always the doldrums
Should I hold them in my arms?
Should I send them on their way?
What about storing them?
In some dusty deep cupboard
Like they’re canned goods
Simply corn I grew, shucked, salted, and jarred
It’s always that
Because “that’ll keep them safe”
It’ll always be to keep them safe
But then there they’ll stay
There they’ll stay
Near
But never in focus

I decided I’d just walk the lakefront a bit more
Till I could decide
What to do with my little treasure chest
of rusty nails and flaking boards
The exact opposite of opulence
But what was it before?
Possibly decorated with cashmere enchantments, a functional door with a toothpick handle
But even so, it was a history fading fast
With each and every day
I have no use for such a thing
Shouldn’t I?
Maybe I shouldn’t
But I can’t help but feel bad

So I let it go
Watched the hideaway swim away, with the wafture
It was like a lullaby, the little hands of waves, which beckon.
As I watched, feet in the shallow lukewarm water
I felt the hands, wanting,
To drag me with
So I can learn what it’s like
To be one of my souvenirs
To feel like
How I make them feel

We cant watch us
Who knows if things have a chance

Souvenirs in this life are used
Used once in a life
Sometimes for a long time
Sometimes not long enough
Souvenirs are used in life
Misunderstood
And then not understood at all