Packing

The baubles overflow their crates,

like if you tried to stomp grapes in a teacup.

I could really use a wake up call.

This apartment won’t pack itself.

Good morning!

I am a poet and this is my book.

All other personal effects,

inconsequential.

When I move,

I’m only bringing my leaves.

And a pen.

That might help.

Maybe a couple,

to keep track of how long

I’ve been writing.

Pop me in the padded crockpot,

under pressure’s where I thrive.

I’m too young to die,

but I’m far too old to feel alive.

How did my dog find more toys than I?

Where does he shop?

When he does,

what phone number is tied

to his rewards card?

I bet he gets all sorts of free treats.

Chicken bones and herring eggs,

racks and racks of beef.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.

They say moving and mourning

are one in the same.

Words left unspoken,

and unresolved shame.

I don’t blame us

for wanting to leave behind

the golden bloom,

or matchbox lawn,

or loose toilet handle,

or uneven doors,

or second-best floor,

or the extreme adventure climate control,

or the funhouse slant,

or the white plaster walls,

or the tiniest entryways

that any architect ever got away

with fitting into an unsuspecting apartment.

Woof

Really, it’s not that bad.

What we get may be worse.

But I have my book

and a handful of observation sticks,

so we’ll see what happens.

Ha!

I’m back

and it’s still today.

How do you pack a fabric cube?

Like, it’s a box,

but not, I don’t know, trustworthy.

Like, I wouldn’t be confident

that the veracity of its contents

(probably old hard drives,

game pads,

candles and socks)

would be maintained

by even the most crack team

of porters.

If I write about it,

I’ll do it.

I’m operating under that conceit.

If these knick knacks could pack themselves,

the tiny grandfather clock,

Seresta,

candelabra,

jewelry box dresser drawers,

should I take them out

if they weigh under a pound?

When I grow up,

I’m gonna storm

the school board meetings

and demand that children

are taught how to pack.

Any lack in preparedness,

a personal attack

on their ability to move on.

How do I squeeze four years,

too many cases of beer,

hundred or so game nights,

five reps of Breaking Bad,

three of South Park,

don’t try it,

10 journals worth of ideas,

at least 3 terabytes of interesting content,

dozens of parties,

arguments,

resolutions,

countless hugs,

kisses,

high fives,

“How was your day”s,

and tens of thousands of hours

spent wandering immaterial lands,

into cardboard boxes and plastic bags?

I’ve heard tell

of entities who could move mountains,

oceans,

and clouds,

but who can even pack and move

memories?

Where do they go

when I’m no longer there to make them?

I don’t know.

These questions are pointless,

insubstantial distractions,

procrastinations.

I think it’s past time

to drop the pen and book,

to pick up the tape and felt-tipped marker,

to start packing.