an inch of vinegar
You're saving it, apparently, for a salad you keep forgetting to make.
In the bathroom's mirrored cabinet, a flick of nail polish left at the bottom
of a small glass jar. There's a rumpled bag in the garage holding a clutch of dirt
that will likely not root the plant you've yet to purchase from the garden store.
These leavings, these leftovers, this clinging to the maybe useful - the house
is full of both optimism and neglect, a store of Lilliputian portions
incapable of meeting your large and shifting demands. The coupons
you are so scrupulously stockpiling. The last dregs of living room paint.
A spool of thread down to its final three loops. A candle with less than an hour left
you hold onto, nevertheless, certain you will need that light somewhere.