In the midst of a mountain
of cardboard boxes,
a long day of unpacking,
he bumps a can and it
tips over, its contents slowly
falling to his feet,
some tarnished
foreign coins and his
golden wedding band.
With a gentle reluctance he
slips it on, watching
the shimmers of light
as the sun dances
across its surface,
shifts his gaze
to the Pile.
Faded t-shirts and khaki
shorts, dusty glassware
and dishes for one,
Janis Joplin records and
a tweed turntable,
a picture of the gang
outside of the Delta house,
cheap cologne from a Christmas
past and an old tube TV
set with no remote.
These are all part of the Pile,
and they prompt him to ask,
is the Pile of me, or am I
of the Pile?
Is life such that it can be
packed into boxes, quantified and transported
in a rented U-Haul truck, to be
the same in a wholly different place?
He has no proof of a life lived
except in the Pile.
He is forty-two and
his kids are gone,
his wife is gone
and he is tired because
it’s been a long day of unpacking,
and life must go on.
Kyle Austin