A summer shandy can porcupined with crayon-colored blowdarts
toppled on my desk amidst a rehashed to-do list, foam yoga blocks
scratched and stabbed with more darts, a camouflage baseball cap,
an orange Jonathan Adler for Target tray printed with golden snakes,
tails intertwined, two hungry former ouroboros;
two drab black sweatshirts I abandoned, sweaty; a branded pen;
my white secondhand Yeti empty of coffee,
decorated with stickers from last winter’s climbing comp.

I drank that beer, rewrote that list.
My son shot the darts and stabbed the blocks.
He left the baseball cap behind.
I found the tray in my trans sibling’s apartment
where their drug-wrung corpse slumped hours earlier.
The sweatshirts? Borrowed from my husband.
The pen given by an enterprising friend.
The Yeti stolen from lost-and-found.
The stickers given to everyone who climbed,
The winners and the losers, all of whom left the ground.