I wrote this one when I was in grad school and had embarked upon a rather nomadic pattern after a long period of stasis about eight or nine years ago. It’s got rotating rhyme and regular syllabic patterns. It came to mind today, so I decided to post it. ♥ EAB
“Ana didn’t have her shit together.”
Packing’s the worst part of abandonment.
There’s no vise to compress my memories,
no photographs, no choice of sundries,
no reflection in the panes
of fireworks from the Fourth
seen from the spot we found on the pavement.
This building knows me far too well. It sees
my light and my dark, dressed up and plain.
It’s where I store my favorite refrain.
But now (and ever henceforth)
it is not mine. I meant
for it to be my shell. It’s not some prize
to stuff inside a plushy bear and pray
it will make the trip ok. I’ve worn
it out, tattered, useless, a drab horde
of metal bits and bobs rent
beyond hope. I can’t raise
my past from the grave. If it’s just the same
to you, when we sit on the roof, ignore
my asides that I’m ready and spent,
through with my life of disenchantment.
Pretend I’m ready to leave.
Pander my heart again.
Remind me that I’ve done all this before.