Album.

dog-eared pages of images
 rusty green
     playground slide
 and see-saw
     between the last time i wrote
 poetry about the past and
     now.
 now whittles away
     between my fingers,
 like a speck of dirt crumbled
     and flicked to the side
 blown by bustling breezes.

 i leaf through pages
 with a guitar strummer
     crystal clear, and
 clearly never used.
     how many dreams
 i spin will end up the same
     a dry, dusty museum?

 but spring-cleaning
 without the spring
 is just self-sabotage.

 i keep my precious things
 inside an album.