By Sarah Fowles
From here I can see the top
Of your baseball cap moving
Like a determined bee to and fro
The pickup truck. You deftly unload
My boxes—the dog-eared books, the shot
Glasses…wardrobe and the clothes…
Two, three at a time, erecting
A shantytown in the driveway.
And then you drop the box of toys,
Plastic monsters break into neon limbs,
The stuffed bears roll.
You hurriedly repack the box, your shoes
Kick up an angry cloud of dust;
And you stop with the last bear in hand,
And you hold it, against your chest.
