everyone he knows, knows

he's good at gathering, collecting. he's a scavenging king. need a scrap of fabric? a spare pie tin? looking for a long lost screw? he's got bundles of discarded cardboard, stacks of assorted paper, racks of empty jars. boxes brimming with hooks, and tacks, and feathers, and twine. everywhere he looks, he sees potential. left-over bottle caps, extra napkins, old canisters. that coil of wire, this strip of leather, even those old pine cones and dried twigs. every object in sight claims a space in his imaginary garden of possibility. yet, silent they sit. organized into quiet compartments. tucked away in safe cupboards and dressers, in wardrobes, on shelves. they sit in segregated silence. they are only lonely seeds. and nothing will come of them.

everyone knows.