Trash Or Treasure? Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

A string of buttons
(but for what?) ,
a cord, a pen
(no point)
a jig-saw puzzle piece,
(impossible to chuck,
inane to hoard.
Toss when I die.
I'll not cease till I cease)
A bottle stopper,
watchband
(ostrich hide) ,
eleven eyelets
(none for seven hooks)
Should I have dumped this box
the year you died
while sorting out
our closets, drawers and books?
That snotty clerk,
the secret place I kissed,
our favorite meal,
(Tell who now? How and why?)
shared spite,
shared worries,
all the things I've missed.
(a look from you, I laughed,
one word, you sighed.)
Lost lock,
when will you know again this key?
(What does one do
with half a memory?)