The Collectors

Sean Foster
Apr 27 · 2 min read
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Everyone collects something, although living minimally has become slightly more mainstream. It is ironic how ironic the humans who live simply are sometimes the most exotic.

There seems to be something about mammals. The way we gather and collect. Our messy desks. Our piles of clothes. Our garages. Some are haphazard. Some are neatly organized. Little archives of our presence here. Little recordings of our footsteps there. The collectors — these humans — seem like mice. There does not always seem to be a purpose to the spare dog hair we gather, nor the crumbs we pile. Until we zoom out, and find a nest.

Our collections seem like more than mounds of raw materials. It is as if we are trying to find ways of elevating our physical experience on the planet. We collect records because we like the sounds of music. We collect books because the sight of a wall of words pleases us. Spices, due to taste and smell. Perhaps there is something to the idea that technology is part of some evolutionary process. But maybe, the collectors are just making a nest.

Of sound, or words, or smell — maybe we are mice seeking shelter.

Sneakerhead’s Lament

You gathered autographs
to look back on;
stacked your battered boxes high
stuffed with tattered baseball cards
filled with dead faces,
players for dead teams
you loved more than me.

You were an archivist of madness
that forgot to make new
old again.

You were a player too,
but became nested in a desire
to make the old new again.

You are a rhisome,
bloated with life,
loaded up for when the mystics come,
and change it all up.
For tomorrow, for them,
for it all to start
back up again.

* * *

I am gone.
In the garage.
Surrounded by your fallen heroes
that I stacked neatly,
mixed with my shoeboxes
of feet gone quiet.
I can still hear

you playing
the one chord you knew
the note of ghosts

mixing with squeaks
of these Jordans
I never wore.

I am a mouse now.
Gathering wooden, unheard squeal hairs.
Sweeping these corn husks of dead men
in the garage, who swang bats to roars.
Maybe me and your ghost
can still taste nickel hot dogs,
if we can flee the nest.

Sean Foster

Written by

Visual Thinker. Cincinnati.

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