To A Synecdoche

by John Grey

In the shell is the scattered cloud
and breezes from the ocean,
the flap of pelican wing,
the stilted dash of sandpipers.

I collect coastlines,
white and scalloped,
pink and smooth,
rinse them free of salt,
dry them on sills;
boats and bathers,
sun and rock,
bask in shiny exoskeleton.

My wife adorns the mantle
with ceramic horses, plastic towers,
brocaded spoons and china cups.
Each is like Aladdin's lamp
with the genie of travel inside.

In my father's underwear drawer
were medals, badges, even a bullet casing
he'd smuggled the war home.

Shells, displayed behind glass,
arrayed on lace doilies —
the small does just enough to represent the vast.