Where I work there is not enough street parking,
The company I work for created a small lot,
Which sits next to the concrete one for the executives.
The bed of the worker’s lot is grey gravel stones.
One chilly autumn morning I backed the car in
Off of the Gowanus Brooklyn street,
I got out against the chill,
Heading to the trunk to retrieve my leather jacket.
That is when something golden and shinny caught my eyes;
I was quick to identify it as jewelry.
Surely they were crushed by tires upon all of those stones!
Still attached to the little plastic thing used to display in stores,
On the reverse side was the price tag.
Even this was not too soiled to clean – I did;
Meaning these earrings hadn’t lain there for very long.
I picked them up,
Their shape reminds me of the sign for infinity;
The measure of time I will care for thee.
For now they adorn my office cubicle.
Showing them to some female coworkers,
“Must belong to ‘Beyonce’ “, one said.
She was referring to the rather stuck-up,
Asian-looking, double-breasted receptionist.
She thinks she is “all that” and is not pleasant.
Often praying and I wish you were here.
I could offer these earrings to you just for fun;
You would reject them as not real gold or second-hand.
“Costume jewelry” is the term I always heard mother use;
I believe you would appreciate it is the good thought that counts!
Knowing your ear lobes are not pierced,
I guess I will save them for you anyway.
When I picked them up,
They reminded me in another new way,
Of the past gifts you’ve sent to me;
All of which fit to the “T”,
Even when personally you had not met me!
And how my ears long for the ring of thy voice.
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