The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Dresser Drawers

tear-stained kerchiefs folded neatly away
goat-skin gloves orphaned by a rusted out car
spent plasticoated cards I never cut up
an errant coin amidst forgotten souvenirs
and a nearly full deck of votive funeral cards
tombed in wood soon to be a coffin of
my lingering odor and the echoing lilt
of lint leavings of a youth long dissected
away from my mental entrails and the
distension of beliefs once held less gently
I no longer whisper happy days
as I rush to slide on my swim shorts or
that garish tshirt from that one time
no, now all my shirts are white
and my socks struggle to cling
they are the shadows I drape on my skeleton
out of modesty as I prepare to molt
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