Secrets punish.

Secrets aren’t kept,
they are stashed

like loot from
the robbery

People collect antiques
fondly save heirlooms
obsess over baseball cards
or Hummel figurines

Secrets are stashed,
hoarded

holding their value
like so many nuts in a
dead-tree nest of a
squirrel that ends up as
road kill

Secrets are not
coveted mementos
fought over inheritance
nor a legacy proudly
flaunted to impress

Secrets do not enrich,
age gracefully.
make whole
or mend fences

cannot be put in the box
with thrift shop rejects
from the attic

a rare time when etiquette
dictates looking a gift horse
in the mouth, staring
him down