Off my chest
It's
not the first time I've emptied it out:
it
chugged Red Star, Madchester to the Smoke,
every
year from when I left that thirties
semi
till I found a place in Tottenham
to
park my bottenham and then a semi
of
my own. So on and on, dragging it
downstairs
or more astutely leaving it
open
at the foot, chucking book after book
and
armfuls of clothes down flights to land
with
satisfying, filling sounds below.
Stacking,
shacking, counting the moves. Till you
tell
me I don't need a boarding school trunk
in
my room if I'm staying for the duration
and
that out-of-season clothes can be stored
in
boxes and drawers, above board, below
bed.
Nuff said. It's empty now for good.
When
tomorrow comes I'll haul it one last
time
out the front door and wait for someone
to
choose it, take it, lug it up the road,
leaving
me no way out. An act of faith.
©
Helen Sandler 2003
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