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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