I belong to What I Possess [a poem]

I belong to What I Possess

You, my griddle, you make me pancakes, I feel silly saying it, but, you make my day

And you, my radio, whisper to me through the night; the cashier tells me she thinks you may be broken, as if that could make me love listening to you any less

And you, my phone, I see your jacket on my floor; victim of my once and future negligence, forgive me

And you, my wooden box of valuables, veteran articles of my self-association, in you I store the best of what I love

You, the gritty tangerine from that poem the other night, now dripping alive and real, give yourself to me

You, my copal incense, when I blow on your hot charcoal you sizzle and glow

You, my copy of Ovid's Metamorphosis; remember when I found you in the vacant lot, and picked you up, and blew the dust off your rain-ruined covers--at night in bed feel my caress while the scent of your ink makes me delirious

And you, my writing dictionary, let me turn your trickling stream of life into a rushing river--move me

And you, my typewriter, orphaned, ward of my estate, between us there is nothing we need to justify, except perhaps a rare bad joke

You, my journal, I spill dreams between your pages when we awake, you claim these from me as I fill your pages

And you, my favorite blanket, make my skin comfortably warm as I draw you near; I care not, how tattered you may become

All of you, I try in vain to leave you--honestly, I can--yet really, I belong to what I possess.