If you can count your friends on more than
one hand, you’re mistaken.
                —Michael G. Kew, 1986-2004

Someone left a walrus,
knew you would like a walrus by himself
chuffing in the watery flowers,
the bob of petunias on granite.

A plastic ring bereft of its price-tag
adorns a tendril of cast-iron sun staked
into the ground, tagged like cattle.
It doesn’t move when the wind does.

A Pisa of pennies,
libations of the otherwise empty handed
piled on the corner of your stone,
slanting slightly: thought of.

I intended to bring a new trinket
but looked down to find I had no fingers.