Small things.

A small, white leather shoe
with a silver buckle.
Its sister fell off in Paddington Rec,
or Queen's Park, perhaps.

A small, once white teddy,
once soft fur worn down to
a porridge-like consistency.
Bead eyes slightly shattered;
threadbare, sporadically.

A small t-shirt, the colour of
pistachio ice-cream. On the
front, a small story, in French,
about a rabbit's vegetable patch.
Illustrated with carrots and radishes.

A small rubber doll, pink and
small enough to fit in the palm
of my hand. When squeezed
it hisses from its tiny oval mouth.
In the bath it spouted water.

These small things sit archived
in my small bedroom. The
small spaces they occupy
would scant be different without
them. Nor would I;

but their small presence
brings small happiness
to my small existence.
They remind me of
how small  I was.
They remind me of
how small I am.