Little Things

 

It’s the little things no one sees until they’re not around
Search and search but in the end these things are never found.
Of pencils, pens a single sock an important business card.
Gone despite the wasted efforts how ever long and hard.
Told is where these things end up of where there taken to.
A well kept secret solely guarded by what a handful knew.
There dwells a gap inside the walls or in between the floors.
An unnoticed way’s a baseboard crack that acts as entry door.
Once mere trinkets now another use becomes these stolen things.
Between two studs hangs a hammock sock secured by lost earrings.
A path of pennies and matchstick curbs leads the small walkway.
To a house of cards with eyeglass windows this tiny hid chalet.
Birthday candles lit its yard that was fenced with marble balls.
Bottle top tables and pen cap chairs stamps adorned the walls.
The bed was made of woolen cotton from a winters pull on hat.
The torn off word from a discarded add became the welcome mat.
What likeness could such creatures be, content in such a place?
Still no harm had come from lodging in this dark and unused space.
Left untouched from where it sat to leave well enough alone.
For we know it’s the little things that can make a house a home.