My mother tapes up boxes
like she has done so all her life.
When she leafs through an old notebook
and decides whether to throw it away,
all it takes to keep it
is a sentence of her child's handwriting,
a fond note,
a silly drawing.
The rest of the pages
could be totally blank.
I fill an entire box with old magazines,
another box with books no one has touched
in ten years, another box
with ancient and sticky paint
from the bottom drawer of a dresser.
We've kept almost everything, so far.
We will drive off with our entire life
in the back of a truck.
We want to keep every inch of it.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoesíaThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
