Most people slide
snugly through
like columns
in a counter.
I drop them in
as I'm sorting
clean silverware,
stacking plates.
They spin like clothes
in a glass-doored dryer,
then teeter
atop the others
before settling down
uniforming.
A few refuse to fit.
Oddly patterned,
too thick or too thin,
they bypass the spin cycle,
clunk in the return slot.
I scoop them out,
rest them in my palm.
Sometimes, a hint
of color or texture
grabs me,
and I drop my sponge,
look closer.
Or a glimmer of sparkle
tempts me
and I scrub,
exposing ridges,
crevices.
Others stagnate
in the chambers
like dust
behind the fridge,
under the microwave.
Then, when I'm low,
I sort,
slipping
each across the table,
into my hand.
Sometimes, one will stick
to my finger.
I'll look closer,
start to rub,
find brilliance
under the scum.
In time,
some turn
inside out.
Alive.
Real and raw.
Posted inPoetry
Inside Out
