(from this writing exercise)

Never trust someone who says
this’ll just be our little secret
generations of cautious parents
have told their children
in private talks in front of me.
But they load me with secrets.
It’s not in my job description.
I have no locks
I sit out in the open
only charged
with keeping things close to hand
for those in bed
lamp, glasses,
the latest detective novel,
mug of tea on a coaster.
But my drawers, without fail,
are loaded with secrets I
cannot protect except with an air
of dignity and reproach –
diaries and love letters,
bags of weed, handcuffs and vibrators,
rings their owners claim are lost

Sometimes I long to open
joyfully to curious fingers
like the junk drawer in the basement
or take my place in everyday life
like the silverware drawer,
feel my weighty purpose
like the desk.

In the meantime
I have busied myself turning years of
guilty glances and hurried half-lit fumbles
into a grease that slides my drawers
out silky silent
and keeps the unspoken from burning a hole
through my insides

You can’t say I don’t do my job well
with what I’ve got to work with.
But is it a job that should be done?