The Lot

I’ve caught my share of lightning
collected fallen stars
even made the shelf
where I put the jars.
With my mighty wooden ships and pencils
and buttons from afar
a stone from every river bank,
ashtray from every bar
and hanging from a wall of hooks
at least a hundred hats.
And that’s my great great grandad
in that old tin photograph.

My butterflies are everywhere
there’s leaves pressed in the books.
Newspaper clips, casino chips
from every chance I took.
And all the sounds of instruments
plucked, bowed, blown or struck.
If you’re looking for the right tool
boy you are in luck.
Everything from sledge hammers to
needles, spools of thread.
And every drawer’s a treasure trove
of trinkets that I have.

There’s still dancing figurines
from many distant lands.
Puppets and pocket magic tricks
many made by sleight of hand.
It took my whole lifetime
to collect all that I got
and when I die and go to auction
some kid might buy the lot.
There’s no way that he could know
no way he could understand
just what he’s holding man.