The Junk Drawer

I rummage through 
the alphabet 
as if it were a junk drawer 
full of bent nails and old keys.

Every word I try to write
reminds me of a house 
abandoned in mid-winter, 
a door swinging,
a roof waiting for snow. 

Love is a whisper
in an alley that smells of 
dust.

Grief sits on a kitchen chair
with no one to talk to.

I rearrange the letters
hoping 
they will tell me 
something,
but the letters shrug
and mutter among 
themselves
like old men 
playing cards
in the basement.

Even so, 
I keep dealing them out
into the dim light,
hoping one hand
will finally make sense.