In the Mulch

She finds things in the mulch

Finds things everywhere, she is gifted that way

But mostly, the most interesting things,

Are in the mulch.

‘Look, mommy, looka dis. What dis?’

Crayons. Photos. Keys. Half a sandwich.

Half a key.

Hair clips. Money. The Maltese Falcon.

Once, a passport from New Zealand.

Fodder for stories she writes every night.

‘Baby Hippo found a crayon and a passport

And made a picture in the passport and went far away

And lived happily ever after. The End.’

Yes, fodder for the stories she writes every night

Wherever we are that night, wherever we find ourselves,

And once or twice or a hundred nights,

We find ourselves in the mulch,

Safer than a shelter or doorway.

The police keep the druggies and pimps away

But they let us stay

And they listen to her stories and

bring her cookies and

chocolate milk

And happily ever after is the greatest story of all.