The Last Toy

That small, wooden train
engine remains on your dresser,
crowded by crumpled bills,
covered by a black dress sock;

the rest lies packed,
entangled in its tracks beneath the snapped,
abiding lid of a plastic box,
buried in the attic’s still vault.

Why did you decide
to set that toy aside, a young man more like me
than the boy you were,
Why make that tiny shrine?

What could be the need
that a teen might have to save
that small memento,
paint chipped and toddler-dented?

I choose to believe,
when I grieve for that dear, small soul
you used to be,
that you share with me
in the loss of the little boy who’s gone,
whose place you’ve taken.