lives bundled in boxes/
melodies of memories chime/

Dear Poet,

Where do I begin?
Now, moving in,
cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left abandoned
in the unsoiled squares where Monet's
hung proudly not so long ago.

Something reminding us
this is like all the other moving days;
finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,
a half eaten apple, melted candle wax,
lipstick stained "I love you" faded
on the bathroom mirror
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day...

in ordering our lives, we discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become in some strange frightening ways, our own.

We plan not to tolerate our fears- a year laid out
like rooms in a new house- our dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, vases no longer filled,
the bookshelves sagging with heavy
self-help books.

Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of poems and metaphors
eager to greet the spring and looking
for the good life we have made.

Yes, poet, now we plan, postponing,
pushing our lives forward into the future-
as if, when the room contains
us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.

The room will not change:
a rug, queen Ann chair, or new coat of paint
won't make a difference:
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath
our freckles & suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and
forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.

I look forward, poet,
and I see myself look back.

I must close,
be well sweet poet,
be well and safe in your existence.

SAS