The Collector
Louis McKee

A day late and a dollar short – my father 
      put a spin on the failures

we stacked like cartons in the cellar.
     They were always there, only

seemed to be forgotten, but a musty smell
     would waft up the stairs each time

the door was opened, and anyway
     we kept adding to the mess.

How old was I when I thought this through,
     and how long has it been since

I thought of it at all?  Long gone
     from that house, I returned

when he died to pack things up,
     and I kept looking, every time

I passed, at the corner where,
     I’d had it in my head, were all

the things gone wrong.  The breaks, tears,
     and mutilations, were stacked

in a neat pile, all the way to the ceiling,
     by then, spreading clear across the room.