Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Everything Hangs

I want to write a poem

but I can’t.

It’s time, Dad says,

to move into a smaller place.

I need less stuff he says.

I want to write a poem

but I can’t

begin to fathom

selling the house where

we all grew up.

He sends me some boxes.

The attic is nearly empty,

he says, let me know …

he says, when they arrive…

I want to open them

but I can’t

Pandora’s box of memories

I may not be able to recover

what I unleash.

Everything hangs in this moment

like sunshine on that porch corner

where our bikes used to sit

gleaming turquoise and white streamers

ready to be ridden.

Exactly like that.

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