This is a poem that I apparently wrote several years ago. I had forgotten about it and did not save a copy. Kim found one and put it in the Valentine card she made for me. One of the advantages of getting old is the possibility of a surprise like this. “Secret Places” was, apparently, in some secret place.
The kitchen junk drawer
Glove compartment under the manual next to the tire gauge.
Bottom of your purse.
Briefcase compartment designed for calculator.
Crotch of backyard maple tree.
Under loose patio flagstone.
Tucked inside the old dictionary.
In a cigar box that once held cigars.
Trunk of the car.
Wherever we keep old extension cords.
Basket full of magazines we haven’t gotten around to.
Top of bedroom door trim.
Journal stashed behind 1980 tax returns.
Next to reusable grocery bags.
In the old first aid kit.
Repainted Altoid tins.
Salvaged robin’s nest.
Behind the furnace.
Inside a shirt.
This is an example of what I call a “list poem,” a genre I probably did not invent. I remember writing a list poem consisting of the titles of movies, all of which began with “The Big.” It was a long poem, very American, and fun to read aloud. I have since lost the poem.
Do you have any secret places you would like to share?