A Catalogue Of The Contents Of His Nightstand Poem by Jehanne Dubrow

One orphaned oak leaf from his uniform.
Loose change. A pair of collar stays. A tube
of mentholated chapstick going warm.
An accordion of ancient Trojans, lube
that's meant to tingle when it touches skin.
The leather cuff he bought in Santa Fe.
A sample of cologne that smells like gin,
cigars, and prohibition, the satin sway
of bodies in a sweating room. A card
his mother sent—she wonders when he'll write
again. A tin of peppermints now hard
and powdery as chalk. A tiny light
he shone on shadows as we lay in bed
(bright spheres) until the battery went dead.