There are ten of you.
Leaning slightly
on each other
like cranky cells
too big for a microscope.
Three blue, one
the red of a dull tomato
and the rest
of the band are
a color we know
well: tan noodle,
dun deal, snap.
Why throw you
away? You’ve got
so much promise,
heartbeats quickening
around newspapers,
mouths for mail.
You will even stretch
yourselves, like vipers,
for the largest things
I have: encyclopedias,
melons. But small
and shriveled my
Grandmother used
to keep you huddled
up for warmth
on the doorknob,
where you would
kiss our paws
discreetly, and we
never said
anything.