Dogma for the Junk Drawer

I believe in the tangled hank of string,
the tail that snakes over a small box
of pretty flower greetings waiting
to be mailed. I believe in the slant-tip
marker, its thick sick smell,
the small sharpener, broken points
of lead collected in corners.
I believe in an old menu with coffee stains
and sandwiches like Boney Billy and The Narmer,
the chewed roll of black tape,
stained wine corks smelling faintly of grape.
Playing cards with shuffled edges, the lazy
red dice with white dots. I believe in the box
of tacks and bulldog hangers, in the needle-nose pliers and small claw hammer—
in unfinished work, the dimples in the wall
and bent nails. I believe there is a way
to fix what is broken, a way to make use
of the useless. I believe if you dig deeply,
you will find what you need.