Sandra Jones

A shiny pebble I quickly drop into my pocket,

a charming trinket I deftly slide up my sleeve,

or a flower I pluck in passing,

to memorize a moment, 

I felt what beauty and truth must be

and how dreamily bright they make the world,

but it becomes a thing

that just might be any old thing

God forbid 

that might fit somewhere 

and blend in on a shelf 

matching what has been so hideously

and properly 

arranged.