The moving van is in the next door driveway.
Neighbors I barely knew
are loading boxes, sofas, dining room table,
into the back.
Soon I'll have new neighbors I barely know,
hauling out rolled up carpets, dressers, beds,
squeezing them through the front door.
The outskirts of my life are changing.
Soon there'll be different faces, different goods.
It makes me think to check on
the core of my existence here.
Nothing's being packed that I'm aware of.
No one's calling up the rental agency.
Better say, "Love you" before she's standing
on the doorstep, caged bird in hand
or her family heirloom silverware
tucked under her arm.
Better quantify how fortunate a man I am
before I'm one television less fortunate,
a stripped bathroom's worth of
down on my luck.
Promise myself to be more attentive,
more caring, more romantic, from now on.
"Did you know the Henderson's are leaving?"
I ask her.
Well that's a start. |
