Step Twelve
I came in numbered bags you tore open
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A kid's plastic-brick spaceship stands assembled in a storage bin of loose bricks, a few pieces short of the ship it was first built as. It remembers the numbered bags, the floor sorted by colour, the instruction booklet that went soft at the corners and then went missing, and the one plate its builder fixed on backwards at step twelve and decided to leave that way. Parts of it are holding up a castle now, and a car's headlight, and the wing on something else that flies.
I still read as a ship from the door / Even with the pieces missing
Listen for solo piano, a voice kept level with the room, and a cello that arrives only at the bridge. This is a quiet track for the afternoon you finally sort the storage bins, for the year a child stops asking for the toy you bought them, or for anything that is still exactly what it was, minus a few parts.
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