She is sitting on two boxes,
not three, and not four.
Two boxes.
One for the past, and one for the future.
The present will stay behind,
collecting dust along with birthday gifts
and lingerie.
These two boxes will be her life for
the next year or two or three,
her only property until she decides
she has been away for too long.
The box on the bottom is messily marked the future.
It holds any and every dream,
all fears,
and no certainties.
The box on top has “past” scribbled in neat cursive script.
It is every treasured memory,
all humiliates,
and no clarity.
The dusty air inside the garage makes her cough,
while the scent of vanilla perfume relaxes her chatty
nerves.
The moving trucks heave up her bumpy block,
and the first one misses her doorstep.
The second driver honks to announce his arrival
while she stares at the two fighting flies just above
the Venus flytrap.
Her cat stares at the door.
She slowly gets up,
and takes a look at the driver.
His black eyebrows contrast with his dyed
blonde hair.
As the driver gets out she notices he is shorter
than she would have guessed.
He stares at her two neatly stacked boxes
and without emotion tells her
she can only bring one.
***
Michelle is an undergraduate student at Hunter College in
busy Manhattan. She has been writing poetry for about 5 years, and dreams of
one day publishing a book. Odd interests include alternative medicine, food
politics, and genealogy.
