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Thursday, April 5, 2012


I have a storage unit that costs a bundle,
monthly bills higher than the value of the stuff inside.
Who’s to judge, really?
Certainly not me.
One man’s version of “Hoarders”,
another’s treasure trove.
There’s that dining room table,
left over from the life of my granny-in-law.
No idea how old it is, but we’ve had it for forty years.
We’ll never use it, but who could part with it?
There’s stories etched into the legs, tales
and conversations absorbed by the top,
truths and lies told around lunch and supper.
There’s that cabinet, a commode I think it’s called,
doesn’t go with anything, but it’s not going anywhere soon.
It sat in someone’s hallway,
listening to stories, some of them excuses, others alibis.
Then there’s that big bag of black and white photos.
My mother took them all, high school friends and army pals,
And I don’t know a one of them.
I could regale you with my love for my mother,
tell you how she died too young, only thirty-eight in ‘58,
before your time, I’ll bet, most of you.
Maybe she planned to write on the backs of those photos.
Maybe she thought she had plenty of time.
She didn’t.
Still, I just can’t toss that bag, just look at it every so often.
No one to give it to, either, but the dumpster doesn’t seem a fit end.
I can imagine the stories behind those faces, the war and all.
If they could sing, we’d hear the Andrews Sisters, backed by Glenn Miller.
Someone besides me will throw all this stuff away,
Some future semi-star of some sort of reality show.
They’ll bitch and groan, wonder why anyone would keep such junk.
Of course they will.
This will all have been too early for them, before their time.

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