did we think we
would do with
all these vestigial
memories?
With so many
leftover
disabused-of thoughts
and jealously hoarded
obsolete feelings
still stacked
to the rafters in
cordoned off spaces,
it's a wonder we
have room
to breathe—let alone
face the prospect
of cleaning up
or leaving.
Besides, in the shape
they're in,
how could we escape—
I mean,
how could we
ever hope to
sell these old places
and move to a newer,
cleaner state
of being—especially
knowing, in our
moth-eaten hearts,
that it wouldn't take long
to cram a new one
with bygones
and antique
emotions from floor
to ceiling?
