Pieces

I pick up a piece.
The vinyl sticks to my hand.
I look at it, examine every inch.
it has round spots,
flat spots that form a whimsical shape
that is different from every other.

A torrent of miss-matched color.
It's old.
Tattered around the edges.
There's a bit of crusty peanut butter on the bottem from long ago.

Calling me to set them right,
sort them. but I can't.
I don't know if they belong together.

But something about this piece I hold in my hand.

Something special.