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Things I Put Away This Week, a poem by Ken Honeywell

Things I Put Away This Week

The little tile table that summers

on the porch, chipped

but still serviceable; and the black

folding chairs, even the ancient

foam cushions, so brittle you could snap

them in half, should have replaced

them years ago—all tied up and

stowed for the season—and the jute

rugs, hose, umbrella, tiki

torches, maybe an hour’s work. T-

shirts, towels, the book I finished and

reshelved, never to open again. Coffee

cups, glasses, plates, half a cheese

pizza, the ukulele I fully intended

to teach myself to play. The idea

of flying to Iceland in April, of ever

moving to Spain.

And a leash

and a collar, a blanket and a bowl.

And a life I locked

in my heart,

chipped but still beating, still

tethered, still and tethered,


Ken Honeywell is a retired writer and ad agency owner, Butler University graduate, and long-time Indianapolis resident. He is on several nonprofit boards and hosts Radio Free Book Club on WQRT-LP. His favorite book is John Crowley's Engine Summer. He bakes a lot.