the hoarder

the time you deliberately
scuffed up my chucks
the time I insulted the candy
you gave me ("these aren't authentic
Jordan Almonds!") the time we sat silent
for hours and stared at the sea,
my shoulder and arm - you burrowing in
- the only communication exchanged,
the rose on your face as the colors
washed over and changed,
the time that I slipped
on the stairs and tripped all the way
down, falling right out the open front
door without hitting the ground! - the time
that we made all the words up wrong
to that song
- to be sung that way, every time since

- these things, now
I am convinced,
are of no use to us
or to anyone else.
Well, there isn't any us
to be of use to
still I keep them around -
have you thrown them all out?
how did you do it, dear?

old calendars, marked-up,
going back years
with drawings of cakes and of boats and planes,
and dates inked in: our trips and plans
and occasions that mostly came true
we looked forward and damn, if we didn't make sure
it worked out! Occasionally one
would be crossed-out, nixed, if it
couldn't be helped, if it just fell
through - but between me and you, almost
everything clicked, or was fixed

until me and you fell through

we fell through it all; I guess,
it's best. When you've run out of trips
and plans and cakes, doesn't matter
what squares on old calendars say
all the days and occasions that turned out
great - so right, and perfect, are so many
laminated stacks of dog-eared,
push-pin punched
trash.

But when it's in your mind, how do you throw that out?

Is it just supposed to fade out, fade away?

While you trip over stacks,
underfoot,

every day