She sells sea shells
By the seashore.
I don’t remember why
But we bought some from her
Back when we visited Florida.
The oven state, as I hear.
I was only one so I don’t remember
But now they collect dust in the cellar
Next to my old nightlight
And a Zoboomafoo board game.
They look like regular shells.
We could’ve picked them up ourselves.
It’s just a mayonnaise jar filled with shells.
Nobody opens it.
If we do, the shells will finally breathe.
Do they miss the warm beach?
They must miss their wives.
Or were they scared to be stepped on?
Or would they rather a splintery death
Over collecting dust for thirteen years,
Surviving two moves…