Souvenirs With No Gift Shop
Stamped In, Stamped Out
A parking slip from a lot in a town I only passed through. Time in, time out, fee paid. Proof of two hours that otherwise left nothing behind. Souvenirs With No Gift Shop.
Kept Things
Souvenirs with no gift shop. What gets filed, and why worthless things are the safe ones to keep.
Souvenirs With No Gift Shop
The Stone With No Label
A plain gray pebble that rode home in a coat pocket, picked up without deciding to, from a shore or a lot I can no longer place. Souvenirs With No Gift Shop.
Souvenirs With No Gift Shop
The Penny Was Longer Than It Should Be
A pressed penny from a highway machine, worth less than the cent it started as, kept because it proves the car stopped. Souvenirs With No Gift Shop.
Souvenirs With No Gift Shop
The Pine Tree in the Oval
A printed napkin from the last independent store on a long stretch of road, kept because you can tell when a place is running on the last of something. Souvenirs With No Gift Shop.
Corners Cut Off the Mail
A tin of stamps cut from the corners of envelopes after the letters had done their work. Not the message, the handling — the postmark, the lick, the torn corner.
Every Diner Thinks Its Logo Deserves a Rectangle
A drawer of sugar packets taken off tables and never used, kept because each one is a printed receipt for a counter I sat at with a cup in front of me.
The Keys Won
A ticket stub worn mostly to crease, sanded soft and scored by riding in a pocket with keys. The event is over and half-forgotten; the stub kept going until the carrying nearly erased it.