Temporarily Possessed Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Just try to pry apart 
an infant's clasp.
'That's MY toy' 
lurks beneath a toddler's bite.
'Mine's better. Trade ya.' 
Everything in sight,
each treasure, trophy, deed,  
begs for our grasp.
We crave and save
and shop and cart 
and yet
how does one keep stuff safe
and find the space?
Devalued, dated,  
worn and torn,  
we face 
if not default,  
remorse and 
fear and debt.
You know,  
the things you own, own you. 
Each year it's what to save
and what to give away
and what to loan or chuck or hoard. 
Each day you fret and sort,  
till that which you hold dear,
a book or photo,
next to where you sleep,
is all the friendly nurses 
let you keep.