Reminded

of lost things
when I open an umbrella,
the click brings me back to my first,
its duck-headed handle
left on the bus
on the way home from school

when I tilt a rearview mirror
I swear I catch a glimpse,
that red tuque my friend made
lying limp on the backseat

in tight snooze-alarm dreams
with warmth and breath,
hands, bodies together
under the blankets

they’re in the trash somewhere now,
in a musty bin at the Sally Anne
or living quietly on the coast,

but they all still exist, I imagine
because I’m still here
lingering on the borders of your memory.

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