August 22/365 In Progress

Still working on this….

Again we move a room of boxes to Rochester.
More clothes than can be worn inside a year.
This time I’m certain he will not return;
like me, he flees, sweet velvet boy of mine.
I could not bear expectations – my mother’s sigh,
my father’s startled eyes, who is this?

Again we move a room of boxes to Rochester.
Four empty nails on a faded wall. Travel posters
for imaginary destinations. We ordered them
online when he outgrew the circus animals,
the orange-eyed tree frogs, the snowy owl’s stare.
I do not know what I have heart to hang there.

Again we move a room of boxes to Rochester.
Packed within the skeleton of home, enough to beam
a roof, to raise out of nothing future nights when
he will cross a door and not think once or twice
of those he should miss. Other arms, other charms
will find him, hold him, keep him from the abyss.

Again we move a room of boxes to Rochester.
Professionals, the patterns are rehearsed.
We know the drill. One box on top of the next until
the truck is full. His bedroom stripped of color retains
the central text: a child was here, once, and now his
ghosts of dust and scent remain, and this is best.

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