They're under glass not because they're fragile, but kept from our fingers because they're expensive, and easily pocketed. But I love the way they float in their own bubbles of time, when the pins were hipster, the rocket car was the ride of the future.
There was a yo yo too small to yo, a doll smaller than a doll's fork,
tintypes of people I'll never know anything about.
I would love to know how each of these things ended up together, pressed under glass like leaves, even if their stories are ordinary. It's the ordinary that I think I love the most, their trails long lost.
Everything ends up together in combinations we can never predict or plan, like the three dolls living in a matchbox, a matchbox brought home from Maxim's Chicago, one night, in someone's soft, dark pocket.