James Thomas Hazard
Of what remains we’ll sort as best we can
A box of silent phones that used to speak,
A drawer of parts for the long departed,
Strings for the stack of hand-written letters
And tubes of photographs still in the dark
Along the way a pack of tiny socks,
Two envelopes full of two-dollar bills,
A cup for pills, small change and hearing-aids,
Canvas bags for white, folded uniforms,
A high closet shelf for unframed pictures
“This old house,” you say. “Cluttered and messy,
Abandoned, faded to lesser colors
As if ashamed to be seen by strangers
Or the grownups it doesn’t recognize.
Can a house be damaged, too, like people?”
“We stood with our backs to that wall,” I say
“Every year our height was measured and marked
By doing so we grew into this house
And no, I think it knows us just the same.
The things we long for and cling to live on”